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HANS BRINKER 

OR 

THE SILVER SKATES 


BY 

MARY MAPES DODGE 


ILLUSTRATED BY 

RUDOLPH MENCL 


NEW YORK 

GRAHAM & MATLACK 
PUBLISHERS 


VZ-^A 

•"D (d (o4 
\\<^ 
\m 


Copyright, 1913 

BY 

GRAHAM & MATLACK 


/ 

©CI.A3 5 0 04 5 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I Hans and Gretel 7 

II The Silver Skates .... 19 

III Hans and Gretel Find a Friend ..... . 25 

IV Sunbeams . 38 

V The Festival of Saint Nicholas ...... 50 

VI In Amsterdam . 58 

VII A Catastrophe .. ... . 75 

VIII Homes 84 

IX On the Canal 103 

X Mynheer Kleef and His Bill of Fare . . . .115 

XI Before the Court 127 

XII The Palace in the Wood 140 

XIII Through the Hague 134 

XIV Homeward Bound 162 

XV The Crisis 171 

XVI Gretel and Hilda . . .177 

XVII Bones and Tongues . . . ... ... . .186 

XVIII The Father’s Return 194 

XIX Glimpses 202 

XX The Mysterious Watch . . . . . . . . 213 

XXI The Race . 230 

XXII Joy in the Cottage 244 

XXIII Mysterious Disappearance of Thomas Higgs . . 232 



FULL PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

The city boats with their rounded sterns 13 

The little Rag-pickers 23 

“Yes, and hurry back, Hans 1 ” . 31 

“Hallo I here comes Fatty’’ 45 

“Hallo J who can’t beat a locomotive?” ......... 65 

“That boy has a clean cut” . . ..... . . . ... 81 

“Jacobi Jacob! are you hurt?” 107 

“I’ve got him I I’ve got himl” ...... . .129 

“It’s all Windmills” ...... .. ... . ... . .. .. . .. 149 

“A lady in Broek, did you say?” i». f r»t !• I** ;• i* i* • • 167 

Gretel’s face was pressed to the window . ,. .183 

Hans slipped from the cottage . ... . ... . . ... ... ,. 19 1 

“Good-morrow, Annie Bouman” . . .. . .. . 203 

“Had he done any wrong, think ye?” . . .217 

“Shall I take the watch?” ............... 227 

“Hilda van Gleck, one mile I” ... ... ,. . ,. 239 

“Did you say Higgs?” .. ... . . 249 

“Would you like to become a physician?” ., .. ... i.. .. ..i ,. ,. 257 


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O N a bright December morning long ago, two thinly clad 
children were kneeling upon the bank of a frozen canal in 
Holland. 

The sun had not yet appeared, but the gray sky was parted near 
the horizon, and its edges shone crimson with the coming day. 
Most of the good Hollanders were enjoying a placid morning nap ; 
even Mynheer von Stoppelnoze, that worthy old Dutchman, was still 
slumbering “in beautiful repose.” 

Now and then some peasant woman, poising a well filled basket 
upon her head, came skimming over the glassy surface of the canal ; 
or a lusty boy, skating to his day’s work in the town, cast a good- 
natured grimace toward the shivering pair as he flew along. 

Meanwhile, with many a vigorous puff and pull, the brother and 
sister, for such they were, seemed to be fastening something upon 
their feet — not skates, certainly, but clumsy pieces of wood narrowed 
and smoothed at their lower edge, and pierced with holes, through 
which were threaded strings of raw hide. 

These queer looking affairs had been made by the boy Hans. His 
mother was a poor peasant-woman, too poor to even think of such a 
thing as buying skates for her little ones. Rough as these were, 
they had afforded the children many a happy hour upon the ice ; and 
now as with cold, red fingers our young Hollanders tugged at the 
strings — their solemn faces bending closely over their knees — no 
vision of impossible iron runners came to dull the satisfaction glow- 
ing within. 


7 



8 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

In a moment the boy arose, and with a pompous swing of the 
arms, and a careless “come on, Gretel,” glided easily across the 
canal. 

“Ah, Hans,” called his sister plaintively, “this foot is not well yet. 
The strings hurt me on last Market day; and now I cannot bear them 
tied in the same place.” 

“Tie them higher up, then,” answered Hans, as without looking 
at her he performed a wonderful cat’s-cradle step on the ice. 

“How can I? The string is too short.” 

Giving vent to a good-natured Dutch whistle, the English of which 
was that girls were troublesome creatures, he steered towards her. 

“You are foolish to wear such shoes, Gretel, when you have a stout 
leather pair. Your klompen ^ would be better than these.” 

“Why, Hans! Do you forget? The father threw my beautiful 
new shoes in the fire. Before I knew what he had done they were 
all curled up in the midst of the burning peat. I can skate with these, 
but not with my wooden ones. — Be careful now — ” 

Hans had taken a string from his pocket. Humming a tune as 
he knelt beside her, he proceeded to fasten Gretel’s skate with all the 
force of his strong young arm. 

“Oh! oh!” she cried, in real pain. 

With an impatient jerk Hans unwound the string. He would 
have cast it upon the ground in true big-brother style, had he not 
just then spied a tear trickling down his sister’s cheek. 

“I’ll fix it — never fear,” he said, with sudden tenderness, “but we 
must be quick; the mother will need us soon.” 

Then he glanced inquiringly about him, first at the ground, next 
at some bare willow branches above his head, and finally at the sky 
now gorgeous with streaks of blue, crimson and gold. 

Finding nothing in any of these localities to meet his need, his 
eye suddenly brightened as, with the air of a fellow who knew what 
he was about, he took off his cap and removing the tattered lining, 
adjusted it in a smooth pad over the top of Gretel’s worn-out shoe. 

“Now,” he cried triumphantly, at the same time arranging the 
strings as briskly as his benumbed fingers would allow, “can you bear 
some pulling?” 


1 Wooden shoes. 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 9 

Gretel drew up her lips as if to say “hurt away,” but made no 
further response. 

In another moment they were laughing together, as hand in hand 
they flew along the canal, never thinking whether the ice would 
bear or not, for in Holland, ice is generally an all-Winter affair. 
It settles itself upon the water in a determined kind of way, and so 
far from growing thin and uncertain every time the sun is a little 
severe upon it, it gathers its forces day by day and flashes defiance 
to every beam. 

Presently, squeak! squeak! sounded something beneath Hans’ feet. 
Next his strokes grew shorter, ending ofttimes with a jerk, and finally, 
he lay sprawling upon the ice, kicking against the air with many a 
fantastic flourish. 

“Ha! ha!” laughed Gretel, “that was a fine tumble!” But a 
tender heart was beating under her coarse blue jacket and, even as 
she laughed, she came, with a graceful sweep, close to her prostrate 
brother. 

“Are you hurt, Hans? oh you are laughing! catch me now” — 
and she darted away shivering no longer, but with cheeks all aglow, 
and eyes sparkling with fun. 

Hans sprang to his feet and started in brisk pursuit, but it was no 
easy thing to catch Gretel. Before she had traveled very far, her 
skates too, began to squeak. 

Believing that discretion was the better part of valor she turned 
suddenly and skated into her pursuer’s arms. 

“Ha, ha! I’ve caught you!” cried Hans. 

“Ha! ha! I caught you,'^ she retorted, struggling to free herself. 

Just then a clear, quick voice was heard calling “Hans! Gretel!” 

“It’s the mother,” said Hans, looking solemn in an instant. 

By this time the canal was gilded with sunlight. The pure morn- 
ing air was very delightful, and skaters were gradually increasing 
in numbers. It was hard to obey the summons. But Gretel and 
Hans were good children; without a thought of yielding to the 
temptation to linger, they pulled off their skates leaving half the knots 
still tied. Hans, with his great square shoulders, and bushy yellow 
hair, towered high above his blue-eyed little sister as they trudged 
homeward. He was fifteen years old and Gretel was only twelve* 


10 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

He was a solid, hearty-looking boy, with honest eyes and a brow that 
seemed to bear a sign “goodness within” just as the little Dutch zomer- 
huis ’ wears a motto over its portal. Gretel was lithe and quick; 
her eyes had a dancing light in them, and while you looked at her 
cheek the color paled and deepened just as it does upon a bed of 
pink and white blossoms when the wind is blowing. 

As soon as the children turned from the canal they could see their 
parents’ cottage. Their mother’s tall form, arrayed in jacket and 
petticoat and close-fitting cap, stood, like a picture, in the crooked 
frame of the doorway. Had the cottage been a mile away, it would 
still have seemed near. In that flat country every object stands out 
plainly in the distance; the chickens show as distinctly as the wind- 
mills. Indeed, were it not for the dykes and the high banks of the 
canals, one could stand almost anywhere in middle Holland with- 
out seeing a mound or a ridge between the eye and the “jumping- 
off place.” 

None had better cause to know the nature of these same dykes 
than Dame Brinker and the panting youngsters now running at her 
call. But before stating why, let me ask you to take a rocking-chair 
trip with me to that far country where you may see, perhaps for the 
first time, some curious things that Hans and Gretel saw every day. 

Holland is one of the queerest countries under the sun. It should 
be called Odd-land or Contrary-land, for in nearly everything it is 
different from the other parts of the world. In the first place, a 
large portion of the country is lower than the level of the sea. Great 
dykes or bulwarks have been erected at a heavy cost of money and 
labor, to keep the ocean where it belongs. On certain parts of the 
coast it sometimes leans with all its weight against the land, and it is 
as much as the poor country can do to stand the pressure. Some- 
times the dykes give way, or spring a leak, and the most disastrous 
results ensue. They are high and wide, and the tops of some of 
them are covered with buildings and trees. They have even fine 
public roads upon them, from which horses may look down upon 
way-side cottages. Often the keels of floating ships are higher 
than the roofs of the dwellings. The stork clattering to her young 
on the house-peak may feel that her nest is lifted far out of danger, 

1 Summer-house. 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES ii 

but the croaking frog in neighboring bulrushes is nearer the stars 
than she. Water-bugs dart backward and forward above the heads 
of the chimney swallows; and willow trees seem drooping with 
shame, because they cannot reach as high as the reeds near by. 

Ditches, canals, ponds, rivers and lakes are everywhere to be seen. 
High, but not dry, they shine in the sunlight, catching nearly all 
the bustle and the business, quite scorning the tame fields stretching 
damply beside them. One is tempted to ask, “which is Holland — 
the shores or the water?” The very verdure that should be con- 
fined to the land has made a mistake and settled upon the fish-ponds. 
In fact the entire country is a kind of saturated sponge or, as the Eng- 
lish poet, Butler, called it, 

“A land that rides at anchor, and is moor’d, 

In which they do not live, but go aboard.” 

Persons are born, live and die, and even have their gardens 
on canal-boats. Farm-houses, with roofs like great slouched hats 
pulled over their eyes, stand on wooden legs with a tucked-up sort 
of air, as if to say “we intend to keep dry if we can.” Even the 
horses wear a wide stool on each hoof to lift them out of the mire. 
In short, the landscape everywhere suggests a paradise for ducks. 
It is a glorious country in summer for bare-footed girls and boys. 
Such wadingsl such mimic ship sailing! Such rowing, fishing and 
swimming! Only think of a chain of puddles where one can launch 
chip boats all day long, and never make a return trip! But enough. 
A full recital would set all young America rushing in a body toward 
the Zuider Zee. 

Dutch cities seem at first sight to be a bewildering jungle of houses, 
bridges, churches and ships, sprouting into masts, steeples and trees. 
In some cities vessels are hitched like horses, to their owners’ door- 
posts and receive their freight from the upper windows. Mothers 
scream to Lodewyk and Kassy not to swing on the garden gate for 
fear they may be drowned! Water-roads are more frequent there 
than common roads and railways; water- fences in the form of lazy 
green ditches, enclose pleasure-ground, polder and garden. 

Sometimes fine green hedges are seen ; but wooden fences such as 
we have in America are rarely met with in Holland. As for stone 


12 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

fences, a Dutchman would lift his hands with astonishment at the 
very idea. There is no stone there, excepting those great masses of 
rock, that have been brought from other lands to strengthen and pro- 
tect the coast. All the small stones or pebbles, if there ever were 
any, seem to be imprisoned in pavements or quite melted away. 
Boys with strong, quick arms may grow from pinafores to full beards 
without ever finding one to start the water-rings or set the rabbits fly- 
ing. The water-roads are nothing less than canals intersecting the 
country in every direction. These are of all sizes, from the great 
North Holland Ship Canal, which is the wonder of the world, to 
those which a boy can leap. Water-omnibuses, called trekschuiten,^ 
constantly ply up and down these roads for the conveyance of pas- 
sengers; and water drays, called pakschuyten,^ are used for carrying 
fuel, and merchandise. Instead of green country lanes, green canals 
stretch from field to barn and from barn to garden; and the farms 
or polders, as they are termed, are merely great lakes pumped dry. 
Some of the busiest streets are water, while many of the country roads 
are paved with brick. The city boats with their rounded sterns, 
gilded prows and gayly painted sides, are unlike any others under 
the sun; and a Dutch wagon with its funny little crooked pole, is 
a perfect mystery of mysteries. 

“One thing is clear,” cries Master Brightside, “the inhabitants 
need never be thirsty.” But no. Odd-land is true to itself still. 
Notwithstanding the sea pushing to get in, and the lakes struggling 
to get out, and the overflowing canals, rivers and ditches, in many 
districts there is no water fit to swallow; our poor Hollanders must 
go dry, or drink wine and beer, or send far into the inland to Utrecht, 
and other favored localities, for that precious fluid older than Adam 
yet young as the morning dew. Sometimes, indeed, the inhabit- 
ants can swallow a shower when they are provided with any means 
of catching it; but generally they are like the Albatross-haunted sail- 

1 Canal boats. Some of the first named are over thirty feet long. They look like green 
houses lodged on barges, and are drawn by horses walking along the bank of the canal. 
The trekschuiten are divided into two compartments, first and second class, and when not 
too crowded the passengers make themselves quite at home in them; the men smoke, the 
women knit or sew, while children play upon the small outer deck. Many of the canal boats 
have white, yellow, or chocolate-colored sails. This last color is caused by a preparation 
of tan which is put on to preserve them. 



The city boats with their rounded sterns. 



14 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

ors in Coleridge’s famous poem of “The Ancient Mariner” — they 
see 

“Water, water everywhere, 

Nor any drop to drink!” 

Great flapping windmills all over the country make it look as if 
flocks of huge sea-birds were just settling upon it. Ever5rwhere one 
sees the funniest trees, bobbed into fantastical shapes, with their trunks 
painted a dazzling white, yellow or red. Horses are often yoked 
three abreast. Men, women and children go clattering about in 
wooden shoes with loose heels ; peasant girls who cannot get beaux 
for love, hire them for money to escort them to the Kermis ; ^ and hus- 
bands and wives lovingly harness themselves side by side on the bank 
of the canal and drag their pakschuyts to market. 

Another peculiar feature of Holland is the dune or sand-hill. 
These are numerous along certain portions of the coast. Before 
they were sown with coarse reedgrass and other plants, to hold them 
down, they used to send great storms of sand over the inland. So, 
to add to the oddities, farmers sometimes dig down under the surface 
to find their soil, and on windy days dry showers (of sand) often 
fall upon fields that have grown wet under a week of sunshine. 

In short, almost the only familiar thing we Yankees can meet with 
in Holland is a harvest-song which is quite popular there, though 
no linguist could translate it. Even then we must shut our eyes and 
listen only to the tune which I leave you to guess. 

“Yanker didee dudel down 
Didee dudel lawnter; 

Yankee viver, voover, vown, 

Botermelk und Tawnter!” 

On the other hand, many of the oddities of Holland serve only to 
prove the thrift and perseverance of the people. There is not a 
richer, or more carefully tilled garden-spot in the whole world than 
this leaky, springy little country. There is not a braver, more heroic 
race than its quiet, passive-looking inhabitants. Few nations have 
equaled it in important discoveries and inventions ; none has excelled 

1 Fair. 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 15 

it in commerce, navigation, learning and science, — or set as noble 
examples in the promotion of education, and public charities; and 
none in proportion to its extent has expended more money and labor 
upon public works. 

Holland has its shining annals of noble and illustrious men and 
women; its grand, historic records of patience, resistance and victory; 
its religious freedom, its enlightened enterprise, its art, its music and 
its literature. It has truly been called, “the battle field of Europe,” 
as truly may we consider it the Asylum of the world, for the op- 
pressed of every nation have there found shelter and encouragement. 
If we Americans, who after all, are homeopathic preparations of 
Holland stock, can laugh at the Dutch, and call them human beavers, 
and hint that their country may float off any day at high tide, we can 
also feel proud, and say they have proved themselves heroes, and 
that their country will not float off while there is a Dutchman left 
to grapple it. 

There are said to be at least ninety-nine hundred large windmills 
in Holland, with sails ranging from eighty to one hundred and 
twenty feet long. They are employed in sawing timber, beating 
hemp, grinding, and many other kinds of work; but their principal 
use is for pumping water from the lowlands into the canals, and for 
guarding against the inland freshets that so often deluge the country. 
Their yearly cost is said to be nearly ten millions of dollars. The 
large ones are of great power. Their huge, circular tower, rising 
sometimes from the midst of factory buildings, is surmounted with a 
smaller one tapering into a cap-like roof. This upper tower is en- 
circled at its base with a balcony, high above which, juts the axis 
turned by its four prodigious, ladder-backed sails. 

Many of the windmills are primitive affairs, seeming sadly in 
need of Yankee “improvements”; but some of the new ones are 
admirable. They are so constructed that, by some ingenious con- 
trivance, they present their fans, or wings, to the wind in precisely the 
right direction to work with the requisite power. In other words, 
the miller may take a nap and feel quite sure that his mill will study 
the wind, and make the most of it, until he wakens. Should there be 
but a slight current of air, every sail will spread itself to catch the 
faintest breath; but if a heavy “blow” should come, they will shrink 


i6 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

at its touch, like great mimosa leaves, and only give it half a chance 
to move them. 

One of the old prisons of Amsterdam, called the Rasphouse, be- 
cause the thieves and vagrants who were confined there were em- 
ployed in rasping log-wood, had a cell for the punishment of lazy 
prisoners. In one corner of this cell was a pump and, in another, an 
opening through which a steady stream of water was admitted. The 
prisoner could take his choice, either to stand still and be drowned, 
or to work for dear life at the pump and keep the flood down until 
his jailer chose to relieve him. Now it seems to me that, throughout 
Holland, Nature has introduced this little diversion on a grand scale. 
The Dutch have always been forced to pump for their very existence 
and probably must continue to do so to the end of time. 

Every year millions of dollars are spent in repairing dykes, and 
regulating water levels. If these important duties were neglected 
the country would be uninhabitable. Already, dreadful conse- 
quences, as I have said, have followed the bursting of these dykes. 
Hundreds of villages and towns have from time to time been buried 
beneath the rush of waters, and nearly a million of persons have been 
destroyed. One of the most fearful inundations ever known oc- 
curred in the autumn of the year 1570. Twenty-eight terrible floods 
had before that time overwhelmed portions of Holland, but this 
was the most terrible of all. The unhappy country had long been 
suffering under Spanish tyranny; now, it seemed the crowning point 
was given to its troubles. When we read Motley’s history of the 
Rise of the Dutch Republic we learn to revere the brave oeoole who 
have endured, suffered and dared so much. 

Mr. Motley in his thrilling account of the great inundation tells 
us how a long continued and violent gale had been sweeping the 
Atlantic waters into the North Sea, piling them against the coasts 
of the Dutch provinces; how the dykes, tasked beyond their strength, 
burst in all directions; how even the Hand-bos, a bulwark formed 
of oaken piles, braced with iron, moored with heavy anchors and 
secured by gravel and granite, was snapped to pieces like pack- 
thread; how fishing boats and bulky vessels floating up into the 
country became entangled among the trees, or beat in the roofs and 
walls of dwellings, and how at last all Friesland was converted into 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 17 

an angry sea. “Multitudes of men, women, children, of horses, 
oxen, sheep, and every domestic animal, were struggling in the waves 
in every direction. Every boat and every article which could 
serve as a boat, were eagerly seized upon. Every house was inun- 
dated, even the grave-yards gave up their dead. The living infant 
in his cradle, and the long-buried corpse in his coffin, floated side 
by side. The ancient flood seemed about to be renewed. Every- 
where, upon the tops of trees, upon the steeples of churches, human 
beings were clustered, praying to God for mercy, and to their fel- 
lowmen for assistance. As the storm at last was subsiding, boats 
began to ply in every direction, saving those who were struggling 
in the water, picking fugitives from roofs and tree tops, and collect- 
ing the bodies of those already drowned.” No less than one hun- 
dred thousand human beings had perished in a few hours. Thou- 
sands upon thousands of dumb creatures lay dead upon the waters ; 
and the damage done to property of every description was beyond 
calculation. 

Robles, the Spanish Governor, was foremost in noble efforts to 
save life and lessen the horrors of the catastrophe. He had formerly 
been hated by the Dutch because of his Spanish or Portuguese blood, 
but by his goodness and activity in their hour of disaster, he won all 
hearts to gratitude. He soon introduced an improved method of 
constructing the dykes, and passed a law that they should in future 
be kept up by the owners of the soil. There were fewer heavy floods 
from this time, though within less than three hundred years six fear- 
ful inundations swept over the land. 

In the Spring there is always great danger of inland freshets, es- 
pecially in times of thaw, because the rivers, choked with blocks of 
ice, overflow before they can discharge their rapidly rising waters 
into the ocean. Added to this, the sea chafing and pressing against 
the dykes, it is no wonder that Holland is often in a state of alarm. 
The greatest care is taken to prevent accidents. Engineers and work- 
men are stationed all along in threatened places and a close watch 
is kept up night and day. When a general signal of danger is given, 
the inhabitants all rush to the rescue, eager to combine against their 
common foe. As, eveiywhere else straw is supposed to be of all 
things the most helpless in the water, of course in Holland it must 


i8 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

be rendered the main stay against a rushing tide. Huge straw mats 
are pressed against the embankments, fortified with clay and heavy 
stone, and once adjusted, the ocean dashes against them in vain. 

Raff Brinker, the father of Gretel and Hans, had for years been 
employed upon the dykes. It was at the time of a threatened inun- 
dation, when in the midst of a terrible storm, in darkness and sleet, 
the men were laboring at a weak spot near the Veermyk sluice, that 
he fell from the scaffolding, and was taken home insensible. From 
that hour he never worked again ; though he lived on, mind and mem- 
ory were gone. 

Gretel could not remember him otherwise than as the strange, 
silent man, whose eyes followed her vacantly whichever way she 
turned; but Hans had recollections of a hearty, cheerful-voiced 
father who was never tired of bearing him upon his shoulder, and 
>vhose careless song still seemed echoing near when he lay awake at 
night and listened. 


D ame BRINKER earned a scanty support for her family by 
raising vegetables, spinning and knitting. Once she had 
worked on board the barges plying up and down the canal, 
and had occasionally been harnessed with other women to the tow- 
ing rope of a pakschuyt plying between Broek and Amsterdam. 
But when Hans had grown strong and large, he had insisted upon 
doing all such drudgery in her place. Besides, her husband had 
become so very helpless of late, that he required her constant care. 
Although not having as much intelligence as a little child, he was 
yet strong of arm and very hearty, and Dame Brinker had sometimes 
great trouble in controlling him. 

“Ah! children, he was so good and steady,” she would sometimes 
say, “and as wise as a lawyer. Even the Burgomaster would stop 
to ask him a question, and now alack! he don’t know his wife and lit- 
tle ones. You remember the father, Hans, when he was himself — 
a great brave man — don’t you?” 

“Yes, indeed, mother, he knew everything, and could do anything 
under the sun — and how he would sing! why, you used to laugh and 
say it was enough to set the windmills dancing.” 

“So I did. Bless me! how the boy remembers! Gretel, child, 
take that knitting needle from your father, quick; he’ll get it in his 
eyes may be; and put the shoe on him. His poor feet are like icc 
half the time, but I can’t keep ’em covered all I can do — ” and then 
half wailing, half humming. Dame Brinker would sit down, and 
fill the low cottage with the whirr of her spinning wheel. 

19 


20 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 


Nearly all the out-door work, as well as the household labor, was 
performed by Hans and Gretel. At certain seasons of the year the 
children went out day after day to gather peat, which they would 
stow away in square, brick-like pieces, for fuel. At other times, 
when home-work permitted, Hans rode the towing-horses on the 
canals, earning a few stivers ^ a day; and Gretel tended geese for the 
neighboring farmers. 

Hans was clever at carving in wood, and both he and Gretel were 
good gardeners. Gretel could sing and sew and run on great, high, 
home-made stilts better than any girl for miles around. She could 
learn a ballad in five minutes, and find, in its season, any weed or 
flower you could name; but she dreaded books, and often the very 
sight of the figuring-board in the old school-house would set her 
eyes swimming. Hans, on the contrary, was slow and steady. The 
harder the task, whether in study or daily labor, the better he liked it. 
Boys who sneered at him out of school, on account of his patched 
clothes and scant leather breeches, were forced to yield him the post 
of honor in nearly every class. It was not long before he was the 
only youngster in the school who had not stood at least once in the 
corner of horrors, where hung a dreaded whip, and over it this motto: 

“Leer, leer! jou luigaart, of dit endje touw zal je leeren!”* 

It was only in winter that Gretel and Hans could be spared to at- 
tend school; and for the past month they had been kept at home be- 
cause their mother needed their services. Raff Brinker required 
constant attention, and there was black bread to be made, and the 
house to be kept clean, and stockings and other things to be knitted 
and sold in the market-place. 

While they were busily assisting their mother on this cold Decem- 
ber morning, a merry troop of girls and boys came skimming down 
the canal. There were fine skaters among them, and as the bright 
medley of costumes flitted by, it looked from a distance as though 
the ice had suddenly thawed, and some gay tulip-bed were floating 
along on the current. 

There was the rich burgomaster’s daughter, Hilda van Gleck, with 

1 A stiver is worth about two cents of our money. 

2 “Learn 1 Learn ! you idler, or this rope’s end shall teach you.” 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 21 

her costly furs and loose-fitting velvet sacque; and, near by, a pretty 
peasant girl, Annie Bouman, jauntily attired in a coarse scarlet 
jacket and a blue skirt just short enough to display the gray home- 
spun hose to advantage. Then there was the proud Rychie Korbes, 
whose father. Mynheer van Korbes, was one of the leading men of 
Amsterdam; and, flocking closely around her, Carl Schummel, Peter 
and Ludwig* van Holp, Jacob Foot, and a very small boy rejoicing 
in the tremendous name of Voostenwalbert Schimmelpenninck. 
There were nearly twenty other boys and girls in the party, and one 
and all seemed full of excitement and frolic. 

Up and down the canal, within the space of a half mile they skated, 
exerting their racing powers to the utmost. Often the swiftest among 
them was seen to dodge from under the very nose of some pompous 
law-giver or doctor, who with folded arms was skating leisurely 
toward the town; or a chain of girls would suddenly break at the 
approach of a fat old burgomaster who, with gold-headed cane 
poised in air, was puffing his way to Amsterdam. Equipped in 
skates wonderful to behold, from their superb strappings, and daz- 
zling runners curving over the instep and topped with gilt balls, 
he would open his fat eyes a little if one of the maidens chanced to 
drop him a courtesy, but would not dare to bow in return for fear of 
losing his balance. 

Not only pleasure-seekers and stately men of note were upon the 
canal. There were work-people, with weary eyes, hastening to their 
shops and factories; market-women with loads upon their heads; 
peddlers bending with their packs; barge-men with shaggy hair and 
bleared faces, jostling roughly on their way; kind-eyed clergymen 
speeding perhaps to the bedsides of the dying; and, after a while, 
groups of children, with satchels slung over their shoulders, whiz- 
zing past, towards the distant school. One and all wore skates ex- 
cepting, indeed, a muffled-up farmer whose queer cart bumped along 
on the margin of the canal. 

Before long our merry boys and girls were almost lost in the con- 
fusion of bright colors, the ceaseless motion, and the gleaming of 
skates flashing back the sunlight. We might have known no more 

1 Ludwig, Gretel and Carl were named after German friends. The Dutch form would 
be Lodewyk, Grietje and Karel. 


22 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

of them had not the whole party suddenly come to a standstill and, 
grouping themselves out of the way of the passers-by, all talked at 
once to a pretty little maiden, whom they had drawn from the tide of 
people flowing toward the town. 

“Oh, Katrinka!” they cried, in a breath, “have you heard of it? 
The race — we want you to join !” 

“What race?” asked Katrinka, laughing — “Don’t all talk at once, 
please, I can’t understand.” 

Every one panted and looked at Rychie Korbes, who was their ac- 
knowledged spokeswoman. 

“Why,” said Rychie, “we are to have a grand skating match on the 
twentieth, on Mevrouw ^ van deck’s birthday. It’s all Hilda’s 
work. They are going to give a splendid prize to the best skater.” 

“Yes,” chimed in half-a-dozen voices, “a beautiful pair of silver 
skates — perfectly magnificent! with, oh! such straps and silver bells 
and buckles!” 

''Who said they had bells?” put in the small voice of the boy with 
the big name. 

"I say so. Master Voost,” replied Rychie. 

“So they have, — ” “No, I’m sure they haven’t, — ” "Oh, how 
can you say so? — ” “it’s an arrow — ” “and Mynheer van Korbes told 
my mother they had bells — ” came from sundry of the excited group ; 
but Mynheer Voostenwalbert Schimmelpenninck essayed to settle 
the matter with a decisive — 

“Well, you don’t any of you know a single thing about it; they 
haven’t a sign of a bell on them, they — ” 

“Oh! oh!” and the chorus of conflicting opinion broke forth again. 

“The girls’ pair are to have bells,” interposed Hilda, quietly, “but 
there is to be another pair for the boys with an arrow engraved upon 
the sides.” 

"There! I told you so!” cried nearly all the youngsters in a breath. 

Katrinka looked at them with bewildered eyes. 

“Who is to try?” she asked. 

“All of us,” answered Rychie. “It will be such fun! And you 
must, too, Katrinka. But it’s school time now, we will talk it all 
over at noon. Oh ! you will join of course.” 

'Mrs. or Madame (pronounced Meffrow). 



The little rag-pickers. 


24 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

Katrinka, without replying, made a graceful pirouette, and laugh- 
ing out a coquettish — “Don’t you hear the last bell? Catch me I” — 
darted off toward the school-house, standing half a mile away, on the 
canal. 

All started, pell-mell, at this challenge, but they tried in vain to 
catch the bright-eyed, laughing creature who, with golden hair 
streaming in the sunlight, cast back many a sparkling glance of tri- 
umph as she floated onward. 

Beautiful Katrinka I Flushed with youth and health, all life and 
mirth and motion, what wonder thine image, ever floating in advance, 
sped through one boy’s dreams that night 1 What wonder that it 
seemed his darkest hour when, years afterward, thy presence floated 
away from him forever. 


SandGrPTEL 
IND A 

lEND 


A t noon our young friends poured forth from the school-house 
intent upon having an hour’s practicing upon the canal. 
They had skated but a few moments when Carl Schummel 
said mockingly to Hilda : 

“There’s a pretty pair just coming upon the ice! The little rag- 
pickers I Their skates must have been a present from the king di- 
rect.” 

“They are patient creatures,” said Hilda, gently. “It must have 
been hard to learn to skate upon such queer affairs. They are very 
poor peasants, you see. The boy has probably made the skates him- 
self.” 

Carl was somewhat abashed. 

“Patient they may be, but as for skating, they start off pretty well 
only to finish with a jerk. They could move well to your new stac- 
cato piece I think.” 

Hilda laughed pleasantly and left him. After joining a small de- 
tachment of the racers, and sailing past every one of them, she halted 
beside Gretel who, with eager eyes, had been watching the sport. 
“What is your name, little girl?” 

“Gretel, my lady,” answered the child, somewhat awed by Hilda’s 
rank, though they were nearly of the same age, “and my brother is 
called Hans.” 

“Hans is a stout fellow,” said Hilda, cheerily, “and seems to have 
a warm stove somewhere within him, but you look cold. You should 
wear more clothing, little one.” 


25 


26 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

Gretel, who had nothing else to wear, tried to laugh as she an- 
swered : 

“I am not so very little. I am past twelve years old.” 

“Oh, I beg your pardon. You see I am nearly fourteen, and so 
large of my age that other girls seem small to me, but that is nothing. 
Perhaps you will shoot up far above me yet; not unless you dress 
more warmly, though — shivering girls never grow.” 

Hans flushed as he saw tears rising in Gretel’s eyes. 

“My sister has not complained of the cold ; but this is bitter weather 
they say — ” and he looked sadly upon Gretel. 

“It is nothing,” said Gretel. “I am often warm — too warm when 
I am skating. You are good jufvrouw ^ to think of it.” 

“No, no,” answered Hilda, quite angry at herself. “I am careless, 
cruel ; but I meant no harm. I wanted to ask you — I mean — if — ” 
and here Hilda, coming to the point of her errand, faltered 
before the poorly clad but noble-looking children she wished to 
serve. 

“What is it, young lady?” exclaimed Hans eagerly. “If there is 
any service I can do? any — ” 

“Oh! no, no,” laughed Hilda, shaking off her embarrassment, “I 
only wished to speak to you about the grand race. Why do you not 
join it? You both can skate well, and the ranks are free. Anyone 
may enter for the prize.” 

Gretel looked wistfully at Hans, who tugging at his cap, answered 
respectfully: 

“Ah, jufvrouw, even if we could enter, we could skate only a few 
strokes with the rest. Our skates are hard wood you see” (holding 
up the sole of his foot) , “but they soon become damp, and then they 
stick and trip us.” 

Gretel’s eyes twinkled with fun as she thought of Hans’ mishap in 
the morning, but she blushed as she faltered out timidly: 

“Oh no, we can’t join ; but may we be there, my lady, on the great 
day to look on?” 

“Certainly,” answered Hilda, looking kindly into the two earnest 
faces, and wishing from her heart that she had not spent so much of 

iMiss — ^Young lady (pronounced yuffrow). In studied or polite address it would be 
jongvrowe (pronounced youngfrow). 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 27 

her monthly allowance for lace and finery. She had but eight 
kwartjes ^ left, and they would buy but one pair of skates, at the 
furthest. 

Looking down with a sigh at the two pair of feet so very different 
in size, she asked: 

“Which of you is the better skater?” 

“Gretel,” replied Hans, promptly. 

“Hans,” answered Gretel, in the same breath. 

Hilda smiled. 

“I cannot buy you each a pair of skates, or even one good pair; 
but here are eight kwartjes. Decide between you which stands the 
best chance of winning the race, and buy the skates accordingly. I 
wish I had enough to buy better ones — good-by I” and, with a nod and 
a smile, Hilda, after handing the money to the electrified Hans, glided 
swiftly away to rejoin her companions. 

“Jufvrouwf jufvrouw van Gleck!” called Hans in a loud tone, 
stumbling after her as well as he could, for one of his skate-strings was 
untied. 

Hilda turned, and with one hand raised to shield her eyes from 
the sun, seemed to him to be floating through the air, nearer and 
nearer. 

“We cannot take this money,” panted Hans, “though we know your 
goodness in giving it.” 

“Why not, indeed?” asked Hilda flushing. 

“Because,” replied Hans, bowing like a clown, but looking with 
the eye of a prince at the queenly girl, “we have not earned it.” 

Hilda was quick-witted. She had noticed a pretty wooden chain 
upon Gretel’s neck, — 

“Carve me a chain, Hans, like the one your sister wears.” 

“That I will, lady, with all my heart, we have white-wood in the 
house, fine as ivory; you shall have one to-morrow,” and Hans hastily 
tried to return the money. 

“No, no,” said Hilda decidedly. “That sum will be but a poor 
price for the chain,” and off she darted, outstripping the fleetest 
among the skaters. 

1 A kwartje is a small silver coin worth one quarter of a guilder, or lo cents in American 
currency. 


28 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

Hans sent a long, bewildered gaze after her; it was useless he felt 
to make any further resistance. 

“It is right,” he muttered, half to himself, half to his faithful 
shadow, Gretel, “I must work hard every minute, and sit up half the 
night if the mother will let me burn a candle; but the chain shall be 
finished. We may keep the money, Gretel.” 

“What a good little lady I” cried Gretel clapping her hands with 
delight, “oh! Hans, was it for nothing the stork settled on our roof 
last summer? Do you remember how the mother said it would 
bring us luck, and how she cried when J anzoon Kolp shot him? And 
she said it would bring him trouble. But the luck has come to us at 
last! Now, Hans, if mother sends us to town to-morrow you can buy 
the skates in the market-place.” 

Hans shook his head. “The young lady would have given us the 
money to buy skates ; but if I earn it, Gretel, it shall be spent for wool. 
You must have a warm jacket.” 

“Oh!” cried Gretel, in real dismay, “not buy the skates! Why 
I am not often cold! Mother says the blood runs up and down in 
poor children’s veins humming ‘I must keep ’em warm! I must 
keep ’em warm.’ 

“Oh, Hans,” she continued with something like a sob, “don’t say 
you won’t buy the skates, it makes me feel just like crying, — because, 
I want to be cold — I mean I’m real, awful warm — so now!” 

Hans looked up hurriedly. He had a true Dutch horror of tears, 
or emotion of any kind, and most of all, he dreaded to see his sister’s 
blue eyes overflowing. 

“Now mind,” cried Gretel, seeing her advantage, “I’ll feel awful 
if you give up the skates. I don’t want them. I’m not such a stingy 
as that; but I want you to have them, and then when I get bigger 
they’ll do for me — oh-h — count the pieces, Hans. Did ever you see 
60 many!” 

Hans turned the money thoughtfully in his palm. Never in all his 
life had he longed so intensely for a pair of skates, for he had known 
of the race and had, boy-like, fairly ached for a chance to test his 
powers with the other children. He felt confident that with a good 
pair of steel runners, he could readily distance most of the boys 
on the canal. Then, too, Gretel’s argument was so plausible. On 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 29 

the other hand, he knew that she, with her strong but lithe little 
frame, needed but a week’s practice on good runners to make her a 
better skater than Rychie Korbes or even Katrinka Flack. As soon 
as this last thought flashed upon him his resolve was made. If Gretel 
would not have the jacket, she should have the skates. 

“No, Gretel,” he answered at last, “I can wait. Some day I may 
have money enough saved to buy a fine pair. You shall have these.” 

Gretel’s eyes sparkled; but in another instant she insisted, rather 
faintly : 

“The young lady gave the money to you, Hans. I’d be real bad 
to take it.” 

Flans shook his head, resolutely, as he trudged on, causing his sister 
to half skip and half walk in her effort to keep beside him ; by this 
time they had taken off their wooden “rockers,” and were hastening 
home to tell their mother the good news. 

“Oh! 1 knowl” cried Gretel, in a sprightly tone, “You can do this. 
You can get a pair a little too small for you, and too big for me, and 
we can take turns and use them. Won’t that be fine?” and Gretel 
clapped her hands again. 

Poor Hans! This was a strong temptation, but he pushed it away 
from him, brave-hearted fellow that he was. 

“Nonsense, Gretel. You could never get on with a big pair. You 
stumbled about with these, like a blind chicken, before I curved off 
the ends. No, you must have a pair to fit exactly, and you must prac- 
tice every chance you can get, until the Twentieth comes. My little 
Gretel shall win the silver skates.” 

Gretel could not help laughing with delight at the very idea. 

“Hans! Gretel!” called out a familiar voice. 

“Coming, Mother!” and they hastened toward the cottage, Hans 
still shaking the pieces of silver in his hand. 

On the following day, there was not a prouder nor a happier boy 
in all Holland than Hans Brinker, as he watched his sister, with 
many a dexterous sweep, flying in and out among the skaters who at 
sundown thronged the canal. A warm jacket had been given her 
by the kind-hearted Hilda, and the burst-out shoes had been cobbled 
into decency by Dame Brinker. As the little creature darted back- 


30 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

ward and forward, flushed with enjoyment, and quite unconscious 
of the many wondering glances bent upon her, she felt that the shin- 
ing runners beneath her feet had suddenly turned earth into Fairy- 
land, while “Hans, dear, good Hans!” echoed itself over and over 
again in her grateful heart. 

“By den donder!” exclaimed Peter van Holp to Carl Schummel, 
“but that little one in the red jacket and patched petticoat skates well. 
Gunst! she has toes on her heels, and eyes in the back of her head! 
See her! It will be a joke if she gets in the race and beats Katrinka 
Flack, after all.” 

“Hush! not so loud!” returned Carl, rather sneeringly. “That 
little lady in rags is the special pet of Hilda van Gleck. Those shin- 
ing skates are her gift, if I make no mistake.” 

“So! so!” exclaimed Peter, with a radiant smile, for Hilda was 
his best friend. “She has been at her good work there, too!” And 
Mynheer van Holp, after cutting a double 8 on the ice, to say nothing 
of a huge P, then a jump, and an H, glided onward until he found 
himself beside Hilda. 

Hand in hand, they skated together, laughingly at first, then staidly 
talking in a low tone. 

Strange to say, Peter van Holp soon arrived at a sudden convic- 
tion that his little sister needed a wooden chain just like Hilda’s. 

Two days afterward, on St. Nicholas’ Eve, Hans, having burned 
three candle-ends, and cut his thumb into the bargain, stood in the 
market-place at Amsterdam, buying another pair of skates. 

Good Dame Brinker! As soon as the scanty dinner had been 
cleared away that noon, she had arrayed herself in her holiday attire, 
in honor of Saint Nicholas. “It will brighten the children,” she 
thought to herself, and she was not mistaken. This festival dress had 
been worn very seldom during the past ten years; before that time 
it had done good service, and had flourished at many a dance and 
Kermis, when she was known, far and wide, as the pretty Meitje 
Klenck. The children had sometimes been granted rare glimpses 
of it as it lay in state in the old oaken chest. Faded and threadbare 
as it was, it was gorgeous in their eyes, with its white linen tucker, 
now gathered to her plump throat, and vanishing beneath the trim 



“Yes, and hurry back, Hans!” 



32 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

bodice of blue homespun, and its reddish brown skirt bordered with 
black. The knitted woolen mitts, and the dainty cap showing her 
hair, which generally was hidden, made her seem almost like a 
princess to Gretel, while master Hans grew staid and well-behaved 
as he gazed. 

Soon the little maid, while braiding her own golden tresses, fairly 
danced around her mother in an ecstasy of admiration. 

“Oh, mother, mother, mother, how pretty you are! Look, Hans! 
isn’t it just like a picture?” 

“Just like a picture,” assented Hans, cheerfully, ^'just like a picture 
— only I don’t like stocking things on the hands.” 

“Not like the mitts, brother Hans! why they’re very important — 
see — they cover up all the red. Oh, mother, how white your arm 
is where the mitt leaves off, whiter than mine, oh, ever so much 
whiter. I declare, mother, the bodice is tight for you. You’re grow- 
ing! you’re surely growing!” 

Dame Brinker laughed. 

“This was made long ago, lovey, when I wasn’t much thicker about 
the waist than a churn-dasher. And how do you like the cap?” turn- 
ing her head from side to side. 

“Oh, ever so much, mother. It’s b-e-a-u-tiful! see! The father 
is looking!” 

Was the father looking? Alas, only with a dull stare. His vrouw 
turned toward him with a start, something like a blush rising to her 
cheeks, a questioning sparkle in her eye. — The bright look died away 
in an instant. 

“No, no,” she sighed, “he sees nothing. Come, Hans” (and the 
smile crept faintly back again), “don’t stand gaping at me all day, 
and the new skates waiting for you at Amsterdam.” 

“Ah, mother,” he answered, “you need many things. Why should 
I buy skates?” 

“Nonsense, child. The money was given to you on purpose, or 
the work was — it’s all the same thing — Go while the sun is high.” 

“Yes, and hurry back, Hans!” laughed Gretel, “we’ll race on the 
canal to-night, if the mother lets us.” 

At the very threshold he turned to say — “Your spinning-wheel 
wants a new treadle, mother.” 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 33 

“You can make it, Hans.” 

“So I can. That will take no money. But you need feathers, and 
wool and meal, and — ” 

“There, there I That will do. Your silver cannot buy everything. 
Ahl Hans, if our stolen money would but come back on this bright 
Saint Nicholas’ Eve, how glad we would be I Only last night I 
prayed to the good Saint — ” 

“Mother I” interrupted Hans in dismay. 

“Why not, Hans I Shame on you to reproach me for that! I’m 
as true a protestant, in sooth, as any fine lady that walks into church, 
but it’s no wrong to turn sometimes to the good Saint Nicholas. 
Tut! It’s a likely story if one can’t do that, without one’s children 
flaring up at it — and he the boys’ and girls’ own saint — Hoot! mayhap 
the colt is a steadier horse than the mare?” 

Hans knew his mother too well to offer a word in opposition, when 
her voice quickened and sharpened as it did now (it was often sharp 
and quick when she spoke of the missing money), so he said, gently: 

“And what did you ask of good Saint Nicholas, mother?” 

“Why to never give the thieves a wink of sleep till they brought 
it back, to be sure, if he’s power to do such things, or else to brighten 
our wits that we might find it ourselves. Not a sight have I had of 
it since the day before the dear father was hurt — as you well know, 
Hans.” 

“That I do, mother,” he answered sadly, “though you have almost 
pulled down the cottage in searching.” 

“Aye ; but it was of no use,” moaned the dame. " 'Hiders make 
best finders.’ ” 

Hans started. “Do you think the father could tell aught?” he 
asked mysteriously. 

“Aye, indeed,” said Dame Brinker, nodding her head, “I think 
so, but that is no sign. I never hold the same belief in the matter 
two days. Mayhap the father paid it off for the great silver watch 
we have been guarding since that day. But, no — I’ll never believe 
it.” 

“The watch was not worth a quarter of the money, mother.” 

“No, indeed; and your father was a shrewd man up to the last mo- 
ment, He was too steady and thrifty for silly doings.” 


34 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

“Where did the watch come from, I wonder,” muttered Hans, half 
to himself. 

Dame Brinker shook her head, and looked sadly toward her hus- 
band, who sat staring blankly at the floor. Gretel stood near him, 
knitting. 

“That we shall never know, Hans. I have shown it to the father 
many a time, but he does not know it from a potato. When he came 
in that dreadful night to supper, he handed the watch to me and told 
me to take good care of it until he asked for it again. Just as he 
opened his lips to say more, Broom Klatterboost came flying in with 
word that the dyke was in danger. Ah ! the waters were terrible that 
holy Pinxter-week! My man, alack, caught up his tools and ran 
out. That was the last I ever saw of him in his right mind. He 
was brought in again by midnight, nearly dead, with his poor head 
all bruised and cut. The fever passed off in time, but never the dull- 
ness — that grew worse every day. We shall never know.” 

Hans had heard all this before. More than once he had seen his 
mother, in hours of sore need, take the watch from its hiding-place, 
half-resolved to sell it, but she always conquered the temptation. 

“No, Hans,” she would say, “we must be nearer starving than this 
before we turn faithless to the father!” 

A memory of some such scene crossed her son’s mind now; for, 
after giving a heavy sigh, and filliping a crumb of wax at Gretel 
across the table, he said: 

“Aye, mother, you have done bravely to keep it — many a one would 
have tossed it off for gold long ago.” 

“And more shame for them!” exclaimed the dame, indignantly. 
'T would not do it. Besides, the gentry are so hard on us poor folks 
that if they saw such a thing in our hands, even if we told all, they 
might suspect the father of — ” 

Hans flushed angrily. 

“They would not dare to say such a thing, mother! If they did — 
I’d—” 

He clenched his fist, and seemed to think that the rest of his sen- 
tence was too terrible to utter in her presence. 

Dame Brinker smiled proudly through her tears at this interrup- 
tion. 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 35 

“Ah, Hans, thou’rt a true, brave lad. We will never part company 
with the watch. In his dying hour the dear father might wake and 
ask for it.” 

“Might wake, mother!” echoed Hans, “wake — and know us?” 

“Aye, child,” almost whispered his mother, “such things have 
been.” 

By this time Hans had nearly forgotten his proposed errand to 
Amsterdam. His mother had seldom spoken so familiarly with him. 
He felt himself now to be not only her son, but her friend, and ad- 
viser. 

“You are right, mother. We must never give up the watch. For 
the father’s sake, we will guard it always. The money, though, may 
come to light when we least expect it.” 

“Never!” cried Dame Brinker, taking the last stitch from her 
needle with a jerk, and laying the unfinished knitting heavily upon 
her lap. “There is no chance! One thousand guilders! and all 
gone in a day! One thousand guilders — Oh! what ever did become 
of them? If they went in an evil way, the thief would have con- 
fessed by this on his dying bed — he would not dare to die with such 
guilt on his soul!” 

“He may not be dead yet,” said Hans, soothingly, “any day we may 
hear of him.” 

“Ah, child,” she said in a changed tone, “what thief would ever 
have come here? It was always neat and clean, thank God! but not 
fine; for the father and I saved and saved that we might have some- 
thing laid by. ‘Little and often soon fills the pouch.’ We found it 
so, in truth ; besides, the father had a goodly sum, already, for service 
done to the Heernocht lands, at the time of the great inundation. 
Every week we had a guilder left over, sometimes more; for the 
father worked extra hours, and could get high pay for his labor. 
Every Saturday night we put something by, except the time when 
you had the fever, Hans, and when Gretel came. At last the pouch 
grew so full that I mended an old stocking and commenced again. 
Now that I look back, it seems that the money was up to the heel in a 
few sunny weeks. There was great pay in those days if a man was 
quick at engineer work. The stocking went on filling with copper 
and silver — aye, and gold. You may well open your eyes, Gretel. 


36 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

I used to laugh and tell the father it was not for poverty I wore my 
old gown ; — and the stocking went on filling — so full that sometimes 
when I woke at night, I’d get up, soft and quiet, and go feel it in the 
moonlight. Then, on my knees, I would thank our Lord that my 
little ones could in time get good learning, and that the father might 
rest from labor in his old age. Sometimes, at supper, the father and 
I would talk about a new chimney and a good winter-room for the 
cow; but my man forsooth had finer plans even than that. ‘A big 
sail,’ says he, ‘catches the wind — we can do what we will soon,’ and 
then we would sing together as I washed my dishes. Ah, ‘a smooth 
sea makes an easy rudder,’ — not a thing vexed me from morning till 
night. Every week the father would take out the stocking, and drop 
in the money and laugh and kiss me as we tied it up together. — Up 
with you, Hans! there you sit gaping, and the day a-wasting!” added 
Dame Drinker tartly, blushing to find that she had been speaking too 
freely to her boy, “it’s high time you were on your way.” 

Hans had seated himself and was looking earnestly into her face. 
He arose, and, in almost a whisper, asked: 

“Have you ever tried, mother?” 

She understood him. 

“Yes, child, often. But the father only laughs, or he stares at me 
so strange I am glad to ask no more. When you and Gretel had 
the fever last Winter, and our bread was nearly gone, and I could 
earn nothing, for fear you would die while my face was turned, oh! 
I tried then! I smoothed his hair, and whispered to him soft as a 
kitten, about the money — where it was — who had it? Alack! he 
would pick at my sleeve, and whisper gibberish till my blood ran 
cold. At last, while Gretel lay whiter than snow, and you were rav- 
ing on the bed, I SCREAMED to him — it seemed as if he must hear me 
— ‘Raff, where is our money? Do you know aught of the money. 
Raff? — the money in the pouch and the stocking, in the big chest?’ 
— but I might as well have talked to a stone — I might as — ” 

The mother’s voice sounded so strangely, and her eye was so bright, 
that Hans, with a new anxiety, laid his hand upon her shoulder. 

“Come, mother,” he said, “let us try to forget this money. I am 
big and strong — Gretel, too, is very quick and willing. Soon all will 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 37 

be prosperous with us again. Why, mother, Gretel and I would 
rather see thee bright and happy, than to have all the silver in the 
world — wouldn’t we, Gretel?” 

“The mother knows it,” said Gretel, sobbing. 



UNBEAMS 


Chapter IV 


D ame BRINKER was startled at her children’s emotion, 
glad, too, for it proved how loving and true they were. 
Beautiful ladies, in princely homes, often smile suddenly 
and sweetly, gladdening the very air around them; but I doubt if 
their smile be more welcome in God’s sight than that which sprang 
forth to cheer the roughly clad boy and girl in the humble cottage. 
Dame Brinker felt that she had been selfish. Blushing and bright- 
ening, she hastily wiped her eyes, and looked upon them as only a 
mother can. 

“Hoity! Toity! pretty talk we’re having, and Saint Nicholas’ Eve 
almost here! What wonder the yarn pricks my fingers! Come, 
Gretel, take this cent,^ and while Hans is trading for the skates you 
can buy a waffle in the market-place.” 

“Let me stay home with you, mother,” said Gretel, looking up 
with eyes that sparkled through their tears. “Hans will buy me the 


cake.” 


“As you will, child, and Hans — wait a moment. Three turns of 
the needle will finish this toe, and then you may have as good a pair 
of hose as ever were knitted (owning the yarn is a grain too sharp) 
to sell to the hosier on the Heireen Gracht.^ That will give us three 
quarter-guilders if you make good trade; and as it’s right hungry 
weather, you may buy four waffles. We’ll keep the Feast of Saint 
Nicholas after all.” 

1 The Dutch cent is worth less than half of an American cent. 

2 A street in Amsterdam. 


38 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 39 

Gretel clapped her hands. “That will be fine! Annie Bouman 
told me what grand times they will have in the big houses to-night. 
But we will be merry too. Hans will have beautiful new skates, — 
and then there’ll be the waffles! Oh-h! Don’t break them, brother 
Hans. Wrap them well, and button them under your jacket very 
carefully.” 

“Certainly,” replied Hans quite grufif with pleasure and impor- 
tance. 

“Oh! mother!” cried Gretel in high glee, “soon you will be busied 
with the father, and now you are only knitting. Do tell us all about 
Saint Nicholas!” 

Dame Brinker laughed to see Hans hang up his hat and prepare 
to listen. “Nonsense, children,” she said, “I have told it to you 
often.” 

“Tell us again! oh, do tell us again!” cried Gretel, throwing herself 
upon the wonderful wooden bench that her brother had made on the 
mother’s last birthday. Hans, not wishing to appear childish, and 
yet quite willing to hear the story, stood carelessly swinging his skates 
against the fire-place. 

“Well, children, you shall hear it, but we must never waste the 
daylight again in this way. Pick up your ball, Gretel, and let your 
sock grow as I talk. Opening your ears needn’t shut your fingers. 
Saint Nicholas, you must know, is a wonderful saint. He keeps his 
eye open for the good of sailors, but he cares most of all for boys and 
girls. Well, once upon a time, when he was living on the earth, a 
merchant of Asia sent his three sons to a great city, called Athens, to 
get learning.” 

“Is Athens in Holland, mother?” asked Gretel. 

“I don’t know, child. Probably it is.” 

“Oh, no, mother,” said Hans, respectfully. “I had that in my 
geography lessons long ago. Athens is in Greece.” 

“Well,” resumed the mother, “what matter? Greece may belong 
to the king, for aught we know. Anyhow, this rich merchant sent 
his sons to Athens. While they were on their way, they stopped 
one night at a shabby inn, meaning to take up their journey in the 
morning. Well, they had very fine clothes,— velvet and silk, it may 
be, such as rich folks’ children, all over the world, think nothing of 


40 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

wearing — and their belts, likewise, were full of money. What did 
the wicked landlord do, but contrive a plan to kill the children, and 
take their money and all their beautiful clothes himself. So that 
night, when all the world was asleep he got up and killed the three 
young gentlemen.” 

Gretel clasped her hands and shuddered, but Hans tried to look as 
if killing and murder were every-day matters to him. 

“That was not the worst of it,” continued Dame Brinker, knitting 
slowly, and trying to keep count of her stitches as she talked, “that 
was not near the worst of it. The dreadful landlord went and cut 
up the young gentlemen’s bodies into little pieces, and threw them 
into a great tub of brine, intending to sell them for pickled porkl” 

“OH 1” cried Gretel, horror-stricken, though she had often heard 
the story before. Hans still continued unmoved, and seemed to 
think that pickling was the best that could be done under the circum- 
stances. 

“Yes, he pickled them, and one might think that would have been 
the last of the young gentlemen. But no. That night Saint Nich- 
olas had a wonderful vision, and in it he saw the landlord cutting 
up the merchant’s children. There was no need of his hurrying, you 
know, for he was a saint; but in the morning he went to the inn and 
charged the landlord with the murder. Then the wicked landlord 
confessed it from beginning to end, and fell down on his knees, beg- 
ging forgiveness. He felt so sorry for what he had done that he 
asked the Saint to bring the young masters to life.” 

“And did the Saint do it?” asked Gretel, delighted, well knowing 
what the answer would be. 

“Of course he did. The pickled pieces flew together in an instant, 
and out jumped the young gentlemen from the brine-tub. They cast 
themselves at the feet of Saint Nicholas and he gave them his bless- 
ing, and — ohl mercy on us, Hans, it will be dark before you get back 
if you don’t start this minute I” 

By this time Dame Brinker was almost out of breath and quite out 
of commas. She could not remember when she had seen the children 
idle away an hour of daylight in this manner, and the thought of such 
luxury quite appalled her. By way of compensation she now flew 
about the room in extreme haste. Tossing a block of peat upon the 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 41 

fire, blowing invisible dust from the table, and handing the finished 
hose to Hans, all in an instant — 

“Come, Hans,” she said, as her boy lingered by the door, “what 
keeps thee?” 

Hans kissed his mother’s plump cheek, rosy and fresh yet, in spite 
of all her troubles — “my mother is the best in the world, and I would 
be right glad to have a pair of skates, but” — and, as he buttoned his 
jacket, he looked, in a troubled way, toward a strange figure crouch- 
ing by the hearth-stone — “if my money would bring a meester ^ from 
Amsterdam to see the father, something might yet be done.” 

“A meester would not come, Hans, for twice that money; and it 
would do no good if he did. Ahl how many guilders I once spent 
for that; but the dear, good father would not waken. It is God’s 
will. Go, Hans, and buy the skates,” 

Hans started with a heavy heart, but since the heart was young, 
and in the boy’s bosom, it set him whistling in less than five minutes. 
His mother had said “thee” to him, and that was quite enough to 
make even a dark day sunny. Hollanders do not address each other, 
in affectionate intercourse, as the French and Germans do. But 
Dame Brinker had embroidered for a Heidelberg family in her girl- 
hood, and she had carried its “thee” and “thou” into her rude home, 
to be used in moments of extreme love and tenderness. 

Therefore, “what keeps thee, Hans?” sang an echo song beneath 
the boy’s whistling, and made him feel that his errand was blest. 

Broek, with its quiet, spotless streets, its frozen rivulets, its yellow 
brick pavements, and bright wooden houses, was near by. It was a 
village where neatness and show were in full blossom; but the inhab- 
itants seemed to be either asleep or dead. 

Not a foot-print marred the sanded paths, where pebbles and sea- 
shells lay in fanciful designs. Every window-shutter was closed as 
tightly as though air and sunshine were poison; and the massive front 
doors were never opened except on the occasion of a wedding, chris- 
tening, or a funeral. 

Serene clouds of tobacco-smoke were floating through hidden 
apartments, and children, who otherwise might have awakened the 

1 Doctor (dokter in Dutch), called meester by the lower class. 


42 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

place, were studying in out-of-the-way corners, or skating upon the 
neighboring canal. A few peacocks and wolves stood in the gardens, 
but they had never enjoyed the luxury of flesh and blood. They 
were cut out in growing box, and seemed guarding the grounds with 
a sort of green ferocity. Certain lively automata, ducks, women and 
sportsmen, were stowed away in summer-houses, waiting for the 
springtime, when they could be wound up, and rival their owners in 
animation; and the shining, tiled roofs, mosaic court-yards and pol- 
ished house-trimmings flashed up a silent homage to the sky, where 
never a speck of dust could dwell. 

Hans glanced toward the village, as he shook his silver kwartjes, 
and wondered whether it were really true, as he had often heard, 
that some of the people of Broek were so rich that they used kitchen 
utensils of solid gold. 

He had seen Mevrouw van Stoop’s sweet-cheeses in market, and 
he knew that the lofty dame earned many a bright, silver guilder in 
selling them. But did she set the cream to rise in golden pans? Did 
she use a golden skimmer? When her cows were in winter quarters, 
were their tails really tied up with ribbons? 

These thoughts ran through his mind as he turned his face toward 
Amsterdam, not five miles away, on the other side of the frozen Y.^ 
The ice upon the canal was perfect; but his wooden runners, so soon 
to be cast aside, squeaked a dismal farewell, as he scraped and 
skimmed along. 

When crossing the Y, whom should he see skating toward him 
but the great Dr. Boekman, the most famous physician and surgeon 
in Holland. Hans had never met him before, but he had seen his 
engraved likeness in many of the shop windows in Amsterdam. It 
was a face that one could never forget. Thin and lank, though a 
born Dutchman, with stern, blue eyes, and queer, compressed lips, that 
seemed to say “no smiling permitted,” he certainly was not a very 
jolly or sociable looking personage, nor one that a well-trained boy 
would care to accost unbidden. 

But Hans was bidden, and that, too, by a voice he seldom disre- 
garded — his own conscience. 

“Here comes the greatest doctor in the world,” whispered the voice. 

^ Pronounced Eye, an arm of the Zuider Zee. 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 43 

‘‘God has sent him ; you have no right to buy skates when you might, 
with the same money, purchase such aid for your father 1” 

The wooden runners gave an exultant squeak. Hundreds of beau- 
tiful skates were gleaming and vanishing in the air above him. He 
felt the money tingle in his fingers. The old doctor looked fearfully 
grim and forbidding. Hans’ heart was in his throat, but he found 
voice enough to cry out, just as he was passing: 

“Mynheer BoekmanI” 

The great man halted, and sticking out his thin under lip, looked 
scowling about him. 

Hans was in for it now. 

“Mynheer,” he panted, drawing close to the fierce-looking doctor, 
“I knew you could be none other than the famous Boekman. I have 
to ask a great favor — ” 

“Humph I” muttered the doctor, preparing to skate past the intru- 
der, — “Get out of the way — I’ve no money — never give to beg- 
gars.” 

“I am no beggar. Mynheer,” retorted Hans proudly, at the same 
time producing his mite of silver with a grand air, “I wish to consult 
with you about my father. He is a living man, but sits like one dead. 
He cannot think. His words mean nothing — but he is not sick. He 
fell on the dykes.” 

“Hey? what?” cried the doctor beginning to listen. 

Hans told the whole story in an incoherent way, dashing off a tear 
once or twice as he talked, and finally ending with an earnest, 

“Oh, do see him. Mynheer. His body is well — it is only his mind 
— I know this money is not enough ; but take it. Mynheer, I will earn 
more — I know I will — Oh! I will toil for you all my life, if you will 
but cure my father!” 

What was the matter with the old doctor? A brightness like sun- 
light beamed from his face. His eyes were kind and moist; the hand 
that had lately clutched his cane, as if preparing to strike, was laid 
gently upon Hans’ shoulder. 

“Put up your money, boy, I do not want it — we will see your father. 
It is a hopeless case, I fear. How long did you say?” 

“Ten years. Mynheer,” sobbed Hans, radiant with sudden hope. 

“Ah! a bad case; but I shall see him. Let me think. To-day I 


44 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

start for Leyden, to return in a week, then you may expect me. Where 
is it?” 

“A mile south of Broek, Mynheer, near the canal. It is only a 
poor, broken-down hut. Any of the children thereabout can point it 
out to your honor,” added Hans, with a heavy sigh; “they are all 
half afraid of the place; they call it the idiot’s cottage.” 

“That will do,” said the doctor, hurrying on, with a bright back- 
ward nod at Hans, “I shall be there. A hopeless case,” he muttered 
to himself, “but the boy pleases me. His eye is like my poor Laur- 
ens. Confound it, shall I never forget that young scoundrel I” and, 
scowling more darkly than ever, the doctor pursued his silent way. 

Again Hans was skating toward Amsterdam on the squeaking 
wooden runners; again his fingers tingled against the money in his 
pocket; again the boyish whistle rose unconsciously to his lips: 

“Shall I hurry home,” he was thinking, “to tell the good news, or 
shall I get the waffles and the new skates first? Whew! I think I’ll 
go onl” 

And so Hans bought the skates. 

Hans and Gretel had a fine frolic early on that Saint Nicholas’ Eve. 
There was a bright moon ; and their mother, though she believed her- 
self to be without any hope of her husband’s improvement, had been 
made so happy at the prospect of the meester’s visit, that she had 
yielded to the children’s entreaties for an hour’s skating before bed- 
time. 

Hans was delighted with his new skates, and in his eagerness to 
show Gretel how perfectly they “worked” did many things upon the 
ice, that caused the little maid to clasp her hands in solemn admira- 
tion. They were not alone, though they seemed quite unheeded by 
the various groups assembled upon the canal. 

The two Van Holps and Carl Schumrael were there, testing their 
fleetness to the utmost. Out of four trials Peter van Holp had beaten 
three times. Consequently Carl, never very amiable, was in anything 
but a good humor. He had relieved himself by taunting young 
Schimmelpenninck who, being smaller than the others, kept meekly 
near them, without feeling exactly like one of the party; but now a 
new thought seized Carl, or rather he seized the new thought and 
made an onset upon his friends. 



“Hallo! here comes Fatty.” 



46 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

“I say, boys, let’s put a stop to those young rag-pickers from the 
idiot’s cottage joining the race. Hilda must be crazy to think of it. 
Katrinka Flack and Rychie Korbes are furious at the very idea of 
racing with the girl; and for my part, I don’t blame them. As for 
the boy, if we’ve a spark of manhood in us we will scorn the very idea 
of—” 

“Certainly we will!” interposed Peter van Holp, purposely mis- 
taking Carl’s meaning, “who doubts it? No fellow with a spark of 
manhood in him would refuse to let in two good skaters just because 
they were poor!” 

Carl wheeled about savagely — 

“Not so fast, master! and I’d thank you not to put words in other 
people’s mouths. You’d best not try it again.” 

“Ha! ha!” laughed little Voostenwalbert Schimmelpenninck, de- 
lighted at the prospect of a fight, and sure that, if it should come to 
blows, his favorite Peter could beat a dozen excitable fellows like 
Carl. 

Something in Peter’s eye made Carl glad to turn to a weaker offen- 
der. He wheeled furiously upon Voost. 

“What are you shrieking about, you little weasel! You skinny 
herring you, you little monkey with a long name for a tail!” 

Half-a-dozen by-standers and by-skaters set up an applauding shout 
at this brave witticism; and Carl, feeling that he had fairly van- 
quished his foes, was restored to partial good humor. He, however, 
prudently resolved to defer plotting against Hans and Gretel until 
sometime when Peter should not be present. 

Just then, his friend, Jacob Poot, was seen approaching. They 
could not distinguish his features at first; but as he was the stoutest 
boy in the neighborhood there could be no mistaking his form. 

“Hola! here comes Fatty!” exclaimed Carl, “and there’s someone 
with him, a slender fellow, a stranger.” 

“Ha! ha! that’s like good bacon,” cried Ludwig; “a streak of lean 
and a streak of fat.” 

“That’s Jacob’s English cousin,” put in Master Voost, delighted 
at being able to give the information, “that’s his English cousin, and, 
oh! he’s got such a funny little name, — Ben Dobbs. He’s going to 
stay with him until after the grand race.” 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 47 

All this time the boys had been spinning, turning, “rolling” and 
doing other feats upon their skates, in a quiet way, as they talked; 
but now they stood still, bracing themselves against the frosty air as 
Jacob Foot and his friend drew near. 

“This is my cousin, boys,” said Jacob, rather out of breath^ — “Ben- 
jamin Dobbs. He’s a John Bull and he’s going to be in the race.” 

All crowded, boy-fashion, about the new comers. Benjamin soon 
made up his mind that the Hollanders, notwithstanding their queer 
gibberish, were a fine set of fellows. 

If the truth must be told, Jacob had announced his cousin as “Pen- 
chamin Dopps,” and called him a “Shon Pull,” but as I translate every 
word of the conversation of our young friends, it is no more than 
fair to mend their little attempts at English. Master Dobbs felt at 
first decidedly awkward among his cousin’s friends. Though most 
of them had studied English and French, they were shy about at- 
tempting to speak either, and he made very funny blunders when he 
tried to converse in Dutch. He had learned that vrouw means wife, 
an ja, yes; an^ spoorweg, railway; kanaals, canals; stoomboat, 
steamboat; ophaalbruggen, drawbridges; buiten plasten, country 
seats; mynheer, “mister”; tweegevegt, duel or two-fights; koper, 
copper; zadel, saddle; but he could not make a sentence out of these, 
nor use the long list of phrases he had learned in his “Dutch dia- 
logues.” The topics of the latter were fine, but were never alluded 
to by the boys. Like the poor fellow who had learned in Ollendorf to 
ask in faultless German “have you seen my grandmother’s red cow?” 
and when he reached Germany discovered that he had no occasion to 
inquire after that interesting animal, Ben found that his book-Dutch 
did not avail him as much as he had hoped. He acquired a hearty 
contempt for Jan van Gorp, a Hollander who wrote a book in Latin 
to prove that Adam and Eve spoke Dutch; and he smiled a knowing 
smile when his uncle Foot assured him that Dutch “had great likeness 
mit Zinglish but it vash much petter languish, much petter.” 

However, the fun of skating glides over all barriers of speech. 
Through this, Ben soon felt that he knew the boys well; and when 
Jacob (with a sprinkling of French and English for Ben’s benefit) 
told of a grand project they had planned, his cousin could now and 
then put in a “ja,” or a nod, in quite a familiar way. 


48 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

•The project was a grand one, and there was to be a fine opportu- 
nity for carrying it out; for, besides the allotted holiday of the Fes- 
tival of Saint Nicholas, four extra days were to be allowed for a gen- 
eral cleaning of the school-house. 

Jacob and Ben had obtained permission to go on a long skating 
journey — no less a one than from Broek to the Hague, the capital of 
Holland, a distance of nearly fifty miles H 

“And now, boys,” added Jacob when he had told the plan, “who 
will go with us?” 

“I willl I will!” cried the boys eagerly. 

“And so will I,” ventured little Voostenwalbert. 

“Ha! hal” laughed Jacob, holding his fat sides, and shaking his 
puffy cheeks, *^you go? Such a little fellow as you? Why, young- 
ster, you haven’t left off your pads yeti” 

Now in Holland very young children wear a thin, padded cushion 
around their heads, surmounted with a framework of whalebone and 
ribbon, to protect them in case of a fall; and it is the dividing line 
between babyhood and childhood when they leave it off. Voost had 
arrived at this dignity several years before; consequently Jacob’s in- 
sult was rather too great for endurance. 

“Look out what you say I” he squeaked. “Lucky for you when you 
can leave off your pads — you’re padded all over!” 

“Ha! ha!” roared all the boys except Master Dobbs, who could not 
understand. “Ha! ha!” — and the good-natured Jacob laughed more 
than any. 

“It ish my fat — yew — he say I bees pad mit fat!” he explained to 
Ben. 

So a vote was passed unanimously in favor of allowing the now 
popular Voost to join the party, if his parents would consent. 

“Good-night!” sang out the happy youngster, skating homeward 
with all his might. 

“Good-night!” 

“We can stop at Haarlem, Jacob, and show your cousin the big 
organ,” said Peter van Holp, eagerly, “and at Leyden, too, where 
there’s no end to the sights; and spend a day and night at the Hague, 

^ Throughout this narrative distances are given according to our standard, the English 
•tatute mile of 5,280 feet. The Dutch mile is more than four times as long as ours. 









HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 49 

for my married sister, who lives there, will be delighted to see us; and 
the next morning we can start for home.” 

“All right I” responded Jacob, who was not much of a talker. 

Ludwig had been regarding his brother with enthusiastic admira- 
tion. 

“Hurrah for you, Petel It takes you to make plans! Mother’ll 
be as full of it as we are when we tell her we can take her love direct 
to sister Van Gend. My! but it’s cold,” he added, “cold enough to 
take a fellow’s head off his shoulders. We’d better go home.” 

“What if it is cold, old Tender-skin?” cried Carl, who was busily 
practicing a step which he called the “double edge.” “Great skating 
we should have by this time, if it was as warm as it was last Decem- 
ber. Don’t you know if it wasn’t an extra cold winter, and an early 
one into the bargain, we couldn’t go?” 

“I know it’s an extra cold night anyhow,” said Ludwig. “Whew! 
I’m going home!” 

Peter van Holp took out a bulgy gold watch, and holding it to- 
ward the moonlight as well as his benumbed fingers would permit, 
called out: 

“Hello! it’s nearly eight o’clock! Saint Nicholas is about by this 
time, and I, for one, want to see the little ones stare. Good-night!” 

“Good-night!” cried one and all, — and off they started, shouting, 
singing, and laughing as they flew along. 

Where were Gretel and Hans? 

Ah! how suddenly joy sometimes comes to an end! 

They had skated about an hour, keeping aloof from the others— 
quite contented with each other, and Gretel had exclaimed, “Ah, Hans, 
how beautiful! how fine! to think that we both have skates! I tell 
you the stork brought us good-luck!” — when they heard something! 

It was a scream — a very faint scream ! No one else upon the canal 
observed it, but Hans knew its meaning too well. Gretel saw him 
turn white in the moonlight as he busily tore off his skates. 

“The father!” he cried, “he has frightened our mother!” and Gretel 
ran after him toward the house as rapidly as she could. 



W E all know how, before the Christmas tree began to flourish 
in the home-life of our country, a certain “right jolly old 
elf,” with “eight tiny reindeer,” used to drive his sleigh- 
load of toys up to our house-tops, and then bound down the chimney 
to fill the stockings so hopefully hung by the fire-place. His friends 
called him Santa Claus, and those who were most intimate ventured 
to say “Old Knick.” It was said that he originally came from Hol- 
land. Doubtless he did ; but, if so, he certainly like many other for- 
eigners changed his ways very much after landing upon our shores. 
In Holland, Saint Nicholas is a veritable saint, and often appears in 
full costume, with his embroidered robes, glittering with gems and 
gold, his miter, his crozier and his jeweled gloves. Here Santa 
Claus comes rollicking along, on the twenty-fifth of December, our 
holy Christmas morn. But in Holland, Saint Nicholas visits earth 
on the fifth, a time especially appropriated to him. Early on the 
morning of the sixth, he distributes his candies, toys and treasures, 
then vanishes for a year. 

Christmas day is devoted by the Hollanders to church rites and 
pleasant family visiting. It is on Saint Nicholas’ Eve that their 
young people become half wild with joy and expectation. To some 
of them it is a sorry time, for the saint is very candid, and if any 
of them have been bad during the past year, he is quite sure to tell 
them so. Sometimes he carries a birch rod under his arm and ad- 
vises the parents to give them scoldings in place of confections, and 
floggings instead of toys. 

50 



HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 51 

It was well that the boys hastened to their abodes on that bright 
winter evening, for in less than an hour afterwards, the saint made 
his appearance in half the homes of Holland. He visited the King’s 
palace and in the self same moment appeared in Annie Bouman’s 
comfortable home. Probably one of our silver half dollars would 
have purchased all that his saintship left at the peasant Bouman’s; 
but a half dollar’s worth will sometimes do for the poor what hun- 
dreds of dollars may fail to do for the rich ; it makes them happy and 
grateful, fills them with new peace and love. 

Hilda van deck’s little brothers and sisters were in a high state 
of excitement that night. They had been admitted into the grand 
parlor; they were dressed in their best, and had been given two cakes 
apiece at supper. Hilda was as joyous as any. Why not? Saint 
Nicholas would never cross a girl of fourteen from his list, just be- 
cause she was tall and looked almost like a woman. On the con- 
trary, he would probably exert himself to do honor to such an au- 
gust-looking damsel. Who could tell? So she sported and laughed 
and danced as gayly as the youngest, and was the soul of all their 
merry games. Father, mother and grandmother looked on approv- 
ingly; so did grandfather, before he spread his large red handker- 
chief over his face, leaving only the top of his skull-cap visible. 
This kerchief was his ensign of sleep. 

Earlier in the evening all had joined in the fun. In the general 
hilarity, there had seemed to be a difference only in bulk between 
grandfather and the baby. Indeed a shade of solemn expectation 
now and then flitting across the faces of the younger members, had 
made them seem rather more thoughtful than their elders. 

Now the spirit of fun reigned supreme. The very flames danced 
and capered in the polished grate. A pair of prim candles that had 
been staring at the astral lamp began to wink at other candles far 
away in the mirrors. There was a long bell-rope suspended from^ 
the ceiling in the corner, made of glass beads netted over a cord nearly 
as thick as your wrist. It generally hung in the shadow and made 
no sign; but to-night it twinkled from end to end. Its handle of 
crimson glass sent reckless dashes of red at the papered wall, turning 
its dainty blue stripes into purple. Passers-by halted to catch the 
merry laughter floating, through curtain and sash, into the street, 


52 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

then skipped on their way with a startled consciousness that the vil- 
lage was wide awake. At last matters grew so uproarious that the 
grandsire’s red kerchief came down from his face with a jerk. 
What decent old gentleman could sleep in such a racket! Mynheer 
van deck regarded his children with astonishment. The baby 
even showed symptoms of hysterics. It was high time to attend to 
business. Madame suggested that if they wished to see the good 
Saint Nicholas, they should sing the same loving invitation that 
had brought him the year before. 

The baby stared and thrust his fist into his mouth as mynheer put 
him down upon the floor. Soon he sat erect, and looked with a 
sweet scowl at the company. With his lace and embroideries, and 
his crown of blue ribbon and whale-bone (for he was not quite past 
the tumbling age), he looked like the king of the babies. 

The other children, each holding a pretty willow basket, formed 
at once in a ring, and moved slowly around the little fellow, lifting 
their eyes, meanwhile, for the saint to whom they were about to ad- 
dress themselves was yet in mysterious quarters. 

Madame commenced playing softly upon the piano; soon the 
voices rose — gentle youthful voices — rendered all the sweeter for 
their tremor: 

“Welcome, friend! Saint Nicholas, welcome! 

Bring no rod for us, to-night! 

While our voices bid thee, welcome, 

Every heart with joy is light! 

Tell us every fault and failing, 

We will bear thy keenest railing. 

So we sing — so we sing — 

Thou shalt tell us everything! 

Welcome, friend! Saint Nicholas, welcome! 

Welcome to this merry band ! 

Happy children greet thee, welcome! 

Thou art glad’ning all the land ! 

Fill each empty hand and basket, 

Tis thy little ones who ask it. 

So we sing — so we sing — 

Thou wilt bring us everything!’* 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 53 

During the chorus, sundry glances, half in eagerness, half in 
(dread, had been cast towards the polished folding doors. Now a 
loud knocking was heard. The circle was broken in an instant. 
Some of the little ones, with a strange mixture of fear and delight, 
pressed against their mother’s knee. Grandfather bent forward, 
with his chin resting upon his hand; grandmother lifted her spec- 
tacles; Mynheer van Gleck, seated by the fireplace, slowly drew 
his meerschaum from his mouth, while Hilda and the other children 
settled themselves beside him in an expectant group. 

The knocking was heard again. 

“Come in,” said madame, softly. 

The door slowly opened, and Saint Nicholas, in full array, stood 
before them. You could have heard a pin drop! Soon he spoke. 
What a mysterious majesty in his voice! what kindliness in his 
tones 1 

“Karel van Gleck, I am pleased to greet thee, and thy honored 
vrouw Kathrine, and thy son and his good vrouw Annie! 

“Children, I greet ye all! Hendrick, Hilda, Broom, Katy, Huy- 
gens, and Lucretia! And thy cousins, Wolfert, Diedrich, Mayken, 
Voost, and Katrina! Good children ye have been, in the main, 
since I last accosted ye. Diedrich was rude at the Haarlem fair 
last Fall, but he has tried to atone for it since. Mayken has failed 
of late in her lessons, and too many sweets and trifles have gone to 
her lips, and too few stivers to her charity-box. Diedrich, I trust, 
will be a polite, manly boy for the future, and Mayken will endeavor 
to shine as a student. Let her remember, too, that economy and 
thrift are needed in the foundation of a worthy and generous life. 
Little Katy has been cruel to the cat more than once. Saint Nicholas 
can hear the cat cry when its tail is pulled. I will forgive her if she 
will remember from this hour that the smallest dumb creatures have 
feelings and must not be abused.” 

As Katy burst into a frightened cry, the Saint graciously remained 
silent until she was soothed. 

“Master Broom,” he resumed, “I warn thee that boys who are 
in the habit of putting snuff upon the foot-stove of the school-mistress 
may one day be discovered and receive a flogging — ” 

[Master Broom colored and stared in great astonishment] 


54 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

“But thou art such an excellent scholar, I shall make thee no 
further reproof. 

“Thou, Hendrick, didst distinguish thyself in the archery match 
last Spring, and hit the Doel,^ though the bird was swung before it 
to unsteady thine eye. I give thee credit for excelling in manly 
sport and exercise — though I must not unduly countenance thy boat- 
racing since it leaves thee too little time for thy proper studies. 

“Lucretia and Hilda shall have a blessed sleep to-night. The con- 
sciousness of kindness to the poor, devotion in their souls, and cheer- 
ful, hearty obedience to household rule will render them happy. 

“With one and all I avow myself well content. Goodness, 
industry, benevolence and thrift have prevailed in your midst. 
Therefore, my blessing upon you — and may the New Year find all 
treading the paths of obedience, wisdom and love. To-morrow you 
shall find more substantial proofs that I have been in your midst. 
Farewell!” 

With these words came a great shower of sugar-plums, upon a 
linen sheet spread out in front of the doors. A general scramble 
followed. The children fairly tumbled over each other in their 
eagerness to fill their baskets. Madame cautiously held the baby 
down in their midst, till the chubby little fists were filled. Then the 
bravest of the youngsters sprang up and burst open the closed doors 
— in vain they peered into the mysterious apartment — Saint Nich- 
olas was nowhere to be seen. 

Soon there was a general rush to another room, where stood a 
table, covered with the finest and whitest of linen damask. Each 
child, in a flutter of excitement, laid a shoe upon it. The door was 
then carefully locked, and its key hidden in the mother’s bedroom. 
Next followed good-night kisses, a grand family-procession to the 
upper floor, merry farewells at bedroom doors — and silence, at last, 
reigned in the Van Gleck mansion. 


Early the next morning, the door was solemnly unlocked and 
opened in the presence of the assembled household, when lo! a sight 
appeared proving Saint Nicholas to be a saint of his word! 

Every shoe was filled to overflowing, and beside each stood many 

1 Bull’s-Eye. 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 55 

a colored pile. The table was heavy with its load of presents — 
candies, toys, trinkets, books and other articles. Everyone had gifts, 
from grandfather down to the baby. 

Little Katy clapped her hands with glee, and vowed, inwardly, 
that the cat should never know another moment’s grief. 

Hendrick capered about the room, flourishing a superb bow and 
arrows over his head. Hilda laughed with delight as she opened 
a crimson box and drew forth its glittering contents. The rest 
chuckled and said “Oh I” and “Ah!” over their treasures, very much 
as we did here in America on last Christmas day. 

With her glittering necklace in her hands, and a pile of books in 
her arms, Hilda stole towards her parents and held up her beaming 
face for a kiss. There was such an earnest, tender look in her bright 
eyes that her mother breathed a blessing as she leaned over her. 

“I am delighted with this book, thank you, father,” she said, touch- 
ing the top one with her chin. “I shall read it all day long.” 

“Aye, sweetheart,” said mynheer, “you cannot do better. There 
is no one like Father Cats. If my daughter learns his ‘MORAL Em- 
blems’ by heart, the mother and I may keep silent. The work you 
have there is the Emblems — his best work. You will find it enriched 
with rare engravings from Van de Venne.” 

[Considering that the back of the book was turned away, myn- 
heer certainly showed a surprising familiarity with an unopened 
volume, presented by Saint Nicholas. It was strange, too, that the 
Saint should have found certain things made by the elder children, 
and had actually placed them upon the table, labeled with parents’ 
and grandparents’ names. But all were too much absorbed in hap- 
piness to notice slight inconsistencies. Hilda saw, on her father’s 
face, the rapt expression he always wore when he spoke of Jacob 
Cats, so she put her armful of books upon the table and resigned 
herself to listen.] 

“Old Father Cats, my child, was a great poet, not a writer of plays 
like the Englishman, Shakspeare, who lived in his time. I have 
read them in the German and very good they are — very, very good 
— but not like Father Cats. Cats sees no daggers in the air; he has 
no white women falling in love with dusky Moors ; no young fools 
sighing to be a lady’s glove; no crazy princes mistaking respectable 


56 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

old gentlemen for rats. No, no. He writes only sense. It is great 
wisdom in little bundles, a bundle for every day of your life. You 
can guide a state with Cats’ poems, and you can put a little baby to 
sleep with his pretty songs. He was one of the greatest men of 
Holland. When I take you to the Hague I will show you the 
Kloosterkerk where he lies buried. There was a man for you to 
study, my sons I he was good through and through. What did he 
say? 

“ *Oh, Lord, let me obtain this from Thee 
To live with patience, and to die with pleasure!’”^ 

*‘Did patience mean folding his hands? No, he was a lawyer, 
statesman, ambassador, farmer, philosopher, historian, and poet. 
He was keeper of the Great Seal of Holland 1 He was a — Bah I 
there is too much noise here, I cannot talk” — and mynheer, looking 
with astonishment into the bowl of his meerschaum — for it had “gone 
out”^ — nodded to his vrouw and left the apartment in great haste. 

The fact is, his discourse had been accompanied throughout with 
a subdued chorus of barking dogs, squeaking cats and bleating lambs, 
to say nothing of a noisy ivory cricket, that the baby was whirling 
with infinite delight. At the last, little Huygens taking advantage 
of the increasing loudness of mynheer’s tones, had ventured a blast 
on his new trumpet, and Wolfert had hastily attempted an accom- 
paniment on the drum. This had brought matters to a crisis, and 
well for the little creatures that it had. The Saint had left no ticket 
for them to attend a lecture on Jacob Cats. It was not an ap- 
pointed part of the ceremonies. Therefore when the youngsters 
saw that the mother looked neither frightened nor offended, they 
gathered new courage. The grand chorus rose triumphant, and 
frolic and joy reigned supreme. 

Good Saint Nicholas! For the sake of the young Hollanders, I, 
for one, am willing to acknowledge him, and defend his reality 
against all unbelievers. 

Carl Schummel was quite busy during that day, assuring little 
children confidentially, that not Saint Nicholas, but their own fathers 


* O Hcerc laat my dat van uwen hand verwerven, 
Te leven met gedult, en met vermaak te sterven. 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 57 

and mothers had produced the oracle and loaded the tables. But 
we know better than that. 

And yet if this were a saint, why did he not visit the Brinker cot- 
tage that night? Why was that one home, so dark and sorrowful, 
passed by? 



<.<^ A RE we all here?” cried Peter, in high glee, as the party 
assembled upon the canal early the next morning, 
equipped for their skating journey. “Let me see. As 
Jacob has made me captain, I must call the roll. Carl Schum- 
mel — . You here?” 

“Yal” 

“Jacob Foot I” 

“Yal” 

“Benjamin Dobbs!” 

“Ya-al” 

“Lambert von Mounen!” 

“Yal” 

“[That’s lucky! Couldn’t get on without you, as you’re the only 
one who can speak English.] Ludwig van Holp!” 

“Ya!” 

“Voostenwalbert Schimmelpenninck!” 

No answer. 

“Ah! the little rogue has been kept at home. Now, boys, it’s just 
eight o’clock — glorious weather, and the Y is as firm as a rock — 
we’ll be at Amsterdam in thirty minutes. One, Two, Three, 
start!” 

True enough, in less than half an hour they had crossed a dyke 
of solid masonry, and were in the very heart of the great metropolis 
of the Netherlands — a walled city of ninety- five islands and nearly 
two hundred bridges. Although Ben had been there twice since his 

58 



HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 59 

arrival in Holland, he saw much to excite wonder; but\his Dutch 
comrades, having lived near by all their lives, considered it the most 
matter-of-course place in the world. Everything interested Ben; 
the tall houses with their forked chimneys and gable ends facing 
the street; the merchants’ ware-rooms, perched high up under the 
roofs of their dwellings, with long, arm-like cranes hoisting and 
lowering goods past the household windows; the grand public build- 
ings erected upon wooden piles driven deep into the marshy ground ; 
the narrow streets; the canals everywhere crossing the city; 
the bridges; the locks; the various costumes, and, strangest of all, 
shops and dwellings crouching close to the fronts of the churches, 
sending their long, disproportionate chimneys far upward along the 
sacred walls. 

If he looked up, he saw tall, leaning houses, seeming to pierce the 
sky with their shining roofs; if he looked down, there was the 
queer street, without crossing or curb — nothing to separate the cob- 
ble-stone pavement from the foot-path of brick — and if he rested 
his eyes half way, he saw complicated little mirrors [^spionnen] 
fastened upon the outside of nearly every window, so arranged that 
the inmates of the houses could observe all that was going on in the 
street, or inspect whoever might be knocking at the door, without 
being seen themselves. 

Sometimes a dog-cart, heaped with wooden ware, passed him; 
then a donkey bearing a pair of panniers filled with crockery or 
glass; then a sled driven over the bare cobble-stones (the runners 
kept greased with a dripping oil rag so that it might run easily) ; 
and then, perhaps, a showy, but clumsy family-carriage, drawn by 
the brownest of Flanders horses, swinging the whitest of snowy 
tails. 

The city was in full festival array. Every shop was gorgeous in 
honor of Saint Nicholas. Captain Peter was forced, more than 
once, to order his men away from the tempting show-windows, where 
everything that is, has been, or can be thought of in the way of 
toys was displayed. Holland is famous for this branch of manu- 
facture. Every possible thing is copied in miniature for the bene- 
fit of the little ones; the intricate mechanical toys that a Dutch 
youngster tumbles about in stolid unconcern would create a stir in 


6o HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

our Patent office. Ben laughed outright at some of the mimic fish- 
ing boats. They were so heavy and stumpy, so like the queer craft 
that he had seen about Rotterdam. The tiny trekschuiten, how- 
ever, only a foot or two long, and fitted out, complete, made his heart 
ache — he so longed to buy one at once for his little brother in Eng- 
land. He had no money to spare, for with true Dutch prudence, 
the party had agreed to take with them merely the sum required 
for each boy’s expenses, and to consign the purse to Peter for safe 
keeping. Consequently Master Ben concluded to devote all his 
energies to sight seeing, and to think as seldom as possible of little 
Robby. 

He made a hasty call at the Marine school and envied the sailor- 
students their full-rigged brig and their sleeping-berths swung over 
their trunks or lockers; he peeped into the Jews’ Quarter of the 
city, where the rich diamond cutters and squalid old-clothes men 
dwell, and wisely resolved to keep away from it; he also enjoyed 
hasty glimpses of the four principal avenues of Amsterdam — the 
Prinsen gracht, Keizers gracht, Heeren gracht and Singel. These 
are semi-circular in form, and the first three average more than two 
miles in length. A canal runs through the center of each, with a 
well-paved road on either side, lined with stately buildings. Rows 
of naked elms, bordering the canal, cast a net-work of shadows over 
its frozen surface; and everything was so clean and bright that Ben 
told Lambert it seemed to him like petrified neatness. 

Fortunately the weather was cold enough to put a stop to the 
usual street-flooding and window-washing, or our young excursion- 
ists might have been drenched more than once. Sweeping, mop- 
ping and scrubbing form a passion with Dutch house-wives, and to 
soil their spotless mansions is considered scarcely less than a crime. 
Everywhere a hearty contempt is felt for those who neglect to rub 
the soles of their shoes to a polish before crossing the door-sill; 
and, in certain places, visitors are expected to remove their heavy 
shoes before entering. 

Sir William Temple, in his Memoirs of “What passed in Christen- 
dom from 1672 to 1679,” tells a story of a pompous magistrate go- 
ing to visit a lady of Amsterdam. A stout Holland lass opened the 
door, and told him in a breath that the lady was at home and that 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 6i 

his shoes were not very clean. Without another word, she took the 
astonished man up by both arms, threw him across her back, car- 
ried him through two rooms, set him down at the bottom of the 
stairs, seized a pair of slippers that stood there and put them upon 
his feet. Then, and not until then, she spoke, telling him that her 
mistress was on the floor above, and that he might go up. 

While Ben was skating, with his friends, upon the crowded canals 
of the city, he found it difficult to believe that the sleepy Dutch- 
men he saw around him, smoking their pipes so leisurely, and look- 
ing as though their hats might be knocked off their heads without 
their making any resistance, were capable of those out-breaks that 
had taken place in Holland — that they were really fellow-country- 
men of the brave, devoted heroes of whom he had read in Dutch 
history. 

As his party skimmed lightly along he told Van Mounen of a 
burial-riot which in 1696 had occurred in that very city, where the 
women and children turned out, as well as the men, and formed 
mock funeral processions through the town, to show the burgomas- 
ters that certain new regulations, with regard to burying the dead, 
would not be acceded to — how at last they grew so unmanageable, 
and threatened so much damage to the city that the burgomasters 
were glad to recall the offensive law. 

^‘There’s the corner,” said Jacob, pointing to some large build- 
ings, “where, about fifteen years ago, the great corn-houses sank 
down in the mud. They were strong affairs, and set up on good 
piles, but they had over seventy thousand hundred-weight of corn in 
them ; and that was too much.” 

It was a long story for Jacob to tell and he stopped to rest. 

“How do you know there were seventy thousand hundred-weight 
in them?” asked Carl sharply — “you were in your swaddling clothes 
then.” 

“My father knows all about it,” was Jacob’s suggestive reply. 
Rousing himself with an effort, he continued — “Ben likes pictures. 
Show him some.” 

“All right,” said the captain. 

“If we had time, Benjamin,” said Lambert van Mounen in Eng- 
lish, “I should like to take you to the City Hall or stadhuis. There 


62 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

are building-piles for you! It is built on nearly fourteen thousand 
of them, driven seventy feet into the ground. But what I wish you 
to see there is the big picture of Van Speyk blowing up his ship — 
great picture.” 

‘‘Van who?” asked Ben. 

“Van Speyk. Don’t you remember? He was in the height of 
an engagement with the Belgians, and when he found that they had 
the better of him and would capture his ship, he blew it up, and him- 
self too, rather than yield to the enemy.” 

“Wasn’t that Van Tromp?” 

“Oh, no. Van Tromp was another brave fellow’. They’ve a 
monument to him down at Delft Haven — the place where the Pil- 
grims took ship for America.” 

“Well, what about Van Tromp? He was a great Dutch ad- 
miral; wasn’t he?” 

“Yes, he was in more than thirty sea-fights. He beat the Span- 
ish fleet and an English one, and then fastened a broom to his mast- 
head to show that he had swept the English from the sea. Takes 
the Dutch to beat, my boy!” 

“Hold up!” cried Ben, “broom or no broom, the English con- 
quered him at last. I remember all about it now. He was 
killed somewhere on the Dutch coast, in an engagement in which the 
British fleet was victorious. Too bad,” he added maliciously, 
“wasn’t it?” 

“Ahem! where are we?” exclaimed Lambert changing the sub- 
ject. “Hello! the others are way ahead of us — all but Jacob. 
Whew'! how fat he is! He’ll break down before we’re half-way.” 

Ben of course enjoyed skating beside Lambert, who though a 
staunch Hollander, had been educated near London, and could 
speak English as fluently as Dutch ; but he was not sorry when Cap- 
tain van Holp called out: 

“Skates off! There’s the Museum!” 

It was open, and there was no charge on that day for admission. 
In they went, shuffling, as boys will, when they have a chance, just 
to hear the sound of their shoes on the polished floor. 

This Museum is in fact a picture gallery where some of the finest 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 63 

works of the Dutch masters are to be seen, besides nearly two hundred 
portfolios of rare engravings. 

Ben noticed, at once, that some of the pictures were hung on 
panels fastened to the wall with hinges. These could be swung for- 
ward like a window-shutter, thus enabling the subject to be seen in the 
best light. The plan servedjhem well in viewing a small group by 
Gerard Douw, called the “Evening School,” enabling them to ob- 
serve its exquisite finish and the wonderful way in which the pic- 
ture seemed to be lit through its own windows. Peter pointed out 
the beauties of another picture by Douw, called “The Hermit,” and 
he also told them some interesting anecdotes of the artist, who was 
born at Leyden in 1613. 

“Three days painting a broom handle!” echoed Carl in astonish- 
ment, while the captain was giving some instances of Douw’s extreme 
slowness of execution. 

“Yes, sir; three days. And it is said that he spent five in finishing 
one hand in a lady’s portrait. You see how very bright and minute 
everything is in this picture. His unfinished works were kept care- 
fully covered, and his painting materials were put away in air-tight 
boxes as soon as he had finished using them for the day. According to 
all accounts, the studio itself must have been as close as a band-box. 
The artist always entered it on tip-toe, besides sitting still, before he 
commenced work, until the slight dust caused by his entrance had 
settled. I have read somewhere that his paintings are improved by 
being viewed through a magnifying glass. He strained his eyes so 
badly with this extra finishing, that he was forced to wear spectacles 
before he was thirty. At forty he could scarcely see to paint, and he 
couldn’t find a pair of glasses anywhere that would help his sight. 
At last, a poor old German woman asked him to try hers. They 
suited him exactly, and enabled him to go on painting as well as 
ever.” 

“Humph!” exclaimed Ludwig, indignantly, “that was high! 
What did she do without them, I wonder?” 

“Oh,” said Peter, laughing, “likely she had another pair. At 
any rate she insisted upon his taking them. He was so grateful that 
he painted a picture of the spectacles for her, case and all, and she 


64 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

sold it to a burgomaster for a yearly allowance that made her com- 
fortable for the rest of her days.” 

“Boys!” called Lambert, in a loud whisper, “come look at this 
‘Bear Hunt.’ ” 

It was a fine painting by Paul Potter, a Dutch artist of the 17 th 
century, who produced excellent works before he was sixteen years 
old. The boys admired it because the subject pleased them. They 
passed carelessly by the master-pieces of Rembrandt and Van der 
Heist, and went into raptures over an ugly picture by Van der Venne, 
representing a sea-fight between the Dutch and English. They 
also stood spell-bound before a painting of two little urchins, one 
of whom was taking soup and the other eating an egg. The prin- 
cipal merit in this work was that the young egg-eater had kindly 
slobbered his face with the yolk for their entertainment. 

An excellent representation of the “Feast of Saint Nicholas” next 
had the honor of attracting them. 

“Look, Van Mounen,” said Ben to Lambert, “could anything be 
better than this youngster’s face? He looks as if he knows he de- 
serves a whipping, but hopes Saint Nicholas may not have found him 
out. That’s the kind of painting 1 like; something that tells a 
story.” 

“Come, boys!” cried the captain, “ten o’clock, time we were off4^ 

They hastened to the canal. 

“Skates on! Are you ready? One, TWO — hallo! where’s Poot?” 

Sure enough where was Poot? 

A square opening had just been cut in the ice not ten yards off. 
Peter observed it, and without a word, skated rapidly toward it 

All the others followed, of course. 

Peter looked in. They all looked in ; then stared anxiously at eacK 
other. 

“Poot!” screamed Peter, peering into the hole again. All was 
still. The black water gave no sign ; it was already glazing on top. 

Van Mounen turned mysteriously to Ben. 

**Didn^t he have a fit once?** 

“My goodness! yes!” answered Ben, in a great fright 

“Then, depend upon it, he’s been taken with one in the Museum!” 

The boys caught his meaning. Every skate was off in a twinkling. 



66 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

Peter had the presence of mind to scoop up a cap-full of water from 
the hole, and off they scampered to the rescue. 

Alas! 7'hey did indeed find poor Jacob in a fit — but it was a fit 
of sleepiness. There he lay in a recess of the gallery, snoring like a 
trooper! The chorus of laughter that followed this discovery 
brought an angry official to the spot. 

“What now! None of this racket! Here, you beer-barrel, wake 
up!” and master Jacob received a very unceremonious shaking. 

As soon as Peter saw that Jacob’s condition was not serious, he 
hastened to the street to empty his unfortunate cap. While he was 
stuffing in his handkerchief to prevent the already frozen crown 
from touching his head, the rest of the boys came down, dragging 
the bewildered and indignant Jacob in their midst. 

The order to start was again given. Master Poot was wide awake 
at last. The ice was a little rough and broken just there, but every 
boy was in high spirits. 

“Shall we go on by the canal or by the river?” asked Peter. 

“Oh, the river, by all means,” said Carl. “It will be such fun; 
they say it is perfect skating all the way, but it’s much farther.” 

Jacob Poot instantly became interested, 
vote for the canal!” he cried. 

“Well, the canal it shall be,” responded the captain, “if all are 
agreed.” 

“Agreed!” they echoed, in rather a disappointed tone — and Cap- 
tain Peter led the way. 

“All right — come on — we can reach Haarlem in an hour!” 

While skating along at full speed, they heard the cars from Amster- 
dam coming close behind them. 

“Hollo!” cried Ludwig, glancing toward the rail-track — “who 
can’t beat a locomotive? Let’s give it a race!” 

The whistle screamed at the very idea — so did the boys — and at 
it they went. 

For an instant the boys were ahead, hurrahing with all their might 
— only for an instant, but even that was something. 

This excitement over, they began to travel more leisurely, and in- 
dulge in conversation and frolic. Sometimes they stopped to ex- 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 67 

change a word with the guards who were stationed at certain dis- 
tances along the canal. These men, in Winter, attend to keeping the 
surface free from obstruction and garbage. After a snow-storm they 
are expected to sweep the feathery covering away before it hardens 
into a marble pretty to look at but very unwelcome to skaters. Now 
and then the boys so far forgot their dignity as to clamber among the 
icebound canal-boats crowded together in a widened harbor off the 
canal, but the watchful guards would soon spy them out and order 
them down with a growl. 

Nothing could be straighter than the canal upon which our party 
were skating, and nothing straighter than the long rows of willow 
trees that stood, bare and wispy, along the bank. On the opposite 
side, lifted high above the surrounding country, lay the carriage 
road on top of the great dyke built to keep the Haarlem Lake within 
bounds ; stretching out far in the distance until it became lost in a 
point, was the glassy canal with its many skaters, its brown-winged 
ice-boats, its push-chairs and its queer little sleds, light as cork, flying 
over the ice by means of iron-pronged sticks in the hands of the riders. 
Ben was in ecstasy with the scene. 

Ludwig van Holp had been thinking how strange it was that the 
English boy should know so much of Holland. According to Lam- 
bert’s account he knew more about it than the Dutch did. This did 
not quite please our young Hollander. Suddenly he thought of 
something that he believed would make the “Shon Pull” open his 
eyes ; he drew near Lambert with a triumphant : 

“Tell him about the tulips!” 

Ben caught the word 'Uulpen/* 

“Oh! yes,” said he eagerly, in English, “the Tulip Mania — are 
you speaking of that? I have often heard it mentioned, but know 
very little about it. It reached its height in Amsterdam, didn’t it?” 

Ludwig moaned; the words were hard to understand, but there 
was no mistaking the enlightened expression on Ben’s face; Lam- 
bert happily was quite unconscious of his young countryman’s dis- 
tress as he replied : 

“Yes, here and in Haarlem, principally; but the excitement ran 
high all over Holland, and in England too for that matter.” 


68 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 


“Hardly in England/ I think,” said Ben, “but I am not sure, as I 
was not there at the time.” 

“Ha! ha! that’s true, unless you are over two hundred years old. 
Well, I tell you, sir, there was never anything like it before nor since. 
Why, persons were so crazy after tulip bulbs in those days, that they 
paid their weight in gold for them.” 

“What! the weight of a man?” cried Ben, showing such astonish- 
ment in his eyes, that Ludwig fairly capered. 

“No, no, the weight of a bulb. The first tulip was sent here from 
Constantinople about the year 1560. It was so much admired that 
the rich people of Amsterdam sent to Turkey for more. From that 
time they grew to be the rage, and it lasted for years. Single roots 
brought from one to four thousand florins; and one bulb, the Semper 
Augustus, brought fifty-five hundred.” 

“That’s more than four hundred guineas of our money,” interposed 
Ben. 

“Yes, and I know I’m right, for I read it in a translation from 
Backman, only day before yesterday. Well, sir, it was great. 
Everyone speculated in tulips, even the barge-men and rag-women, 
and chimney-sweeps. The richest merchants were not ashamed to 
share the excitement. People bought bulbs and sold them again at 
a tremendous profit without ever seeing them. It grew into a kind 
of gambling. Some became rich by it in a few days, and some lost 
everything they had. Land, houses, cattle and even clothing went 

1 Although the Tulip Mania did not prevail in England as in Holland, the flower soon 
became an object of speculation and brought very large prices. In 1636, tulips were publicly 
sold on the Exchange of London. Even as late as 1800, a common price was fifteen guineas 
for one bulb. Ben did not know that in his own day a single tulip plant, called the “Fanny 
Kemble,” had been sold in London for more than 70 guineas. 

Mr. Mackay in his “Memoirs of Popular Delusions,” tells a funny story of an English 
botanist who happened to see a tulip bulb lying In the conservatory of a wealthy Dutchman. 
Ignorant of its value, he took out his penknife and, cutting the bulb in two, became very much 
interested in his investigations. Suddenly the owner appeared, and pouncing furiously upon 
him, asked him ii he knew what he was doing. “Peeling a most extraordinary onion,” replied 
the philosopher. “Hundert tousant tuyvel!” shouted the Dutchman, “it’s an Admiral Vander 
Eyk!” “Thank you,” replied the traveler, immediately writing the name in his notebook, 
“pray are these very common in your country?” “Death and the tuyvel!” screamed the Dutch- 
man, “come before the Syndic and you shall see!” In spite of his struggles the poor investiga- 
tor, followed by an indignant mob, was taken through the streets to a magistrate. Soon he 
learned to his dismay that he had destroyed a bulb worth 4,000 florins ($1,600). He was 
lodged in prison until securities could be procured for the payment of the sum. 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 69 

for tulips when people had no ready money. Ladies sold their 
jewels and finery to enable them to join in the fun. Nothing else 
was thought of. At last the States-general interfered. People be- 
gan to see what geese they were making of themselves and down went 
the price of tulips. Old tulip debts couldn’t be collected. Credit- 
ors went to law, and the law turned its back upon them; debts made 
in gambling were not binding, it said. Then, there was a time! 
Thousands of rich speculators reduced to beggary in an hour. As 
old Beckman says, “the bubble was burst at last.” 

“Yes, and a big bubble it was,” said Ben, who had listened with 
great interest. “By-the-way, did you know that the name tulip 
came from a Turkish word, signifying turban?” 

“I had forgotten that,” answered Lambert, “but it’s a capital idea. 
Just fancy a party of Turks in full headgear, squatted upon a lawn — 
perfect tulip bed! Ha! ha! capital idea!” 

[“There,” groaned Ludwig to himself, “he’s been telling Lambert 
something wonderful about Tulips — I knew it!”] 

“The fact is,” continued Lambert, “you can conjure up quite a 
human picture out of a tulip bed in bloom, especially when it is 
nodding and bobbing in the wind. Did you ever notice it?” 

“Not I. It strikes me, Van Mounen, that you Hollanders are 
prodigiously fond of the flower to this day.” 

“Certainly. You can’t have a garden without them, prettiest 
flower that grows, / think. My uncle has a magnificent bed of the 
finest varieties at his summer-house on the other side of Amster- 
dam.” 

“I thought your uncle lived in the city?” 

“So he does; but his summer-house, or pavilion, is a few miles off. 
He has another one built out over the river. We passed near it when 
we entered the city. Everybody in Amsterdam has a pavilion some- 
where, if he can.” 

“Do they ever live there?” asked Ben. 

“Bless you, no! They are small affairs, suitable only to spend a 
few hours in on Summer afternoons. There are some beautiful ones 
on the southern end of the Haarlem Lake — now that they’ve com- 
menced to drain it into polders, it will spoil that fun. By-the-way, 


70 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

we’ve passed some red-roofed ones since we left home. You noticed 
them I suppose with their little bridges, and ponds and gardens, and 
their mottoes over the doorway.” 

Ben nodded. 

“They make but little show, now,” continued Lambert, “but in 
warm weather they are delightful. After the willows sprout, uncle 
goes to his summer-house every afternoon. He dozes and smokes; 
aunt knits, with her feet perched upon a foot-stove, never mind how 
hot the day; my cousin Rika and the other girls fish in the lake from 
the windows, or chat with their friends rowing by; and the young- 
sters tumble about, or hang upon the little bridges over the ditch. 
Then they have coffee and cakes; besides a great bunch of water- 
lilies on the table — it’s very fine, I can tell you; only (between our- 
selves) though I was born here, I shall never fancy the odor of stag- 
nant water that hangs about most of the summer-houses. Nearly 
every one you see is built over a ditch. Probably I feel it more, from 
having lived so long in England.” 

“Perhaps I shall notice it, too,” said Ben, “if a thaw comes. The 
early Winter has covered up the fragrant waters for my benefit — 
much obliged to it. Holland without this glorious skating wouldn’t 
be the same thing to me at all.” 

“How very different you are from the PootsI” exclaimed Lambert, 
who had been listening in a sort of brown study, “and yet you are 
cousins — I cannot understand it.” 

“We are cousins, or rather we have always considered ourselves 
such, but the relationship is not very close. Our grandmothers were 
half-sisters. My side of the family is entirely English, while his is 
entirely Dutch. Old Great-grandfather Poot married twice, you 
see, and I am a descendant of his English wife. I like Jacob, though, 
better than half of my English cousins put together. He is the 
truest-hearted, best-natured boy I ever knew. Strange as you may 
think it, my father became accidentally acquainted with Jacob’s 
father while on a business visit to Rotterdam. They soon talked 
over their relationship — in French, by-the-way — and they have cor- 
responded in that language ever since. Queer things come about in 
this world. My sister Jenny would open her eyes at some of Aunt 
Poot’s ways. Aunt is a thorough lady, but so different from mother 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 71 

— and the house, too, and furniture, and way of living, everything is 
different.” 

“Of course,” assented Lambert, complacently, [as if to say, “you 
could scarcely expect such general perfection anywhere else than in 
Holland,”] “but you will have all the more to tell Jenny when you 
go back.” 

“Yes, indeed. I can say one thing — if cleanliness is, as they claim, 
next to godliness, Broek is safe. It is the cleanest place I ever saw 
in my life. Why, my Aunt Foot, rich*as she is, scrubs half the time, 
and her house looks as if it were varnished all over. I wrote to 
mother yesterday that I could see my double always with me, feet 
to feet, in the polished floor of the dining-room.” 

“Your double! that word puzzles me, what do you mean?” 

“Oh, my reflection, my apparition. Ben Dobbs number two.” 

“Ah, I see,” exclaimed Van Mounen. “Have you ever been in 
your Aunt Foot’s grand parlor?” 

Ben laughed. “Only once, and that was on the day of my ar- 
rival. Jacob says I shall have no chance of entering it again un- 
til the time of his sister Kenau’s wedding, the week after Christmas. 
Father has consented that I shall remain to witness the great event. 
Every Saturday Aunt Foot, and her fat Kate, go into that parlor and 
sweep, and polish, and scrub; then it is darkened and closed until 
Saturday comes again; not a soul enters it in the meantime; but the 
schoonmaken, as she calls it, must be done, just the same.” 

“That is nothing. Every parlor in Broek meets with the same 
treatment,” said Lambert. “What do you think of those moving 
figures in her neighbor’s garden?” 

“Oh, they’re well enough, the swans must seem really alive gliding 
about the pond in summer; but that nodding mandarin in the corner, 
under the chestnut trees, is ridiculous, only fit for children to laugh 
at. And then the stiff garden patches, and the trees all trimmed and 
painted. Excuse me. Van Mounen, but I shall never learn to admire 
Dutch taste.” 

“It will take time,” answered Lambert, condescendingly, “but 
you are sure to agree with it at last. I saw much to admire in Eng- 
land, and I hope I shall be sent back with you, to study at Oxford ; 
but take everything together, I like Holland best.” 


72 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

“Of course you do,” said Ben, in a tone of hearty approval, “you 
wouldn’t be a good Hollander if you didn’t. Nothing like loving 
one’s country. It is strange, though, to have such a warm feeling for 
such a cold place. If we were not exercising all the time we should 
freeze outright.” 

Lambert laughed. 

“That’s your English blood, Benjamin, Fm not cold. And look 
at the skaters here on the canal — they’re red as roses, and happy as 
lords. Hallo I good Captain van Holp,” called out Lambert in 
Dutch, “what say you to stopping at yonder farm-house and warming 
our toes?” 

“Who is cold?” asked Peter, turning around. 

“Benjamin Dobbs.” 

“Benjamin Dobbs shall be warmed,” and the party was brought 
to a halt. 

On approaching the door of the farm-house the boys suddenly 
found themselves in the midst of a lively domestic scene. A burly 
Dutchman came rushing out, closely followed by his dear vrouw, 
and she was beating him smartly with a long-handled warming-pan. 
The expression on her face gave our boys so little promise of a kind 
reception that they prudently resolved to carry their toes elsewhere 
to be warmed. 

The next cottage proved to be more inviting. Its low roof of 
bright red tiles, extended over the cow-stable, that, clean as could 
be, nestled close to the main building. A neat, peaceful-looking old 
woman sat at one window, knitting. At the other could be dis- 
cerned part of the profile of a fat figure that, pipe in mouth, sat be- 
hind the shining little panes and snowy curtains. In answer to 
Peter’s subdued knock, a fair-haired, rosy-cheeked lass in holiday at- 
tire opened the upper half of the green door (which was divided 
across the middle) and inquired their errand. 

“May we enter and warm ourselves, jufvrouw?” asked the captain 
respectfully. 

“Yes, and welcome,” was the reply, as the lower half of the door 
swung softly toward its mate. Every boy before entering rubbed 
long and faithfully upon the rough mat, and each made his best bow 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 73 

to the old lady and gentleman at the windows. Ben was half in- 
clined to think that these personages were automata like the moving 
figures in the garden at Broek; for they both nodded their heads 
slowly, in precisely the same way, and both went on with their em- 
ployment as steadily and stiffly as though they worked by machinery. 
The old man puffed! puffed! and his vrouw clicked her knitting- 
needles, as if regulated by internal cog-wheels. Even the real smoke 
issuing from the motionless pipe gave no convincing proof that they 
were human. 

But the rosy-cheeked maiden. Ah ! how she bustled about. How 
she gave the boys polished high-backed chairs to sit upon, how she 
made the fire blaze as if it were inspired, how she made Jacob Foot 
almost weep for joy by bringing forth a great square of gingerbread, 
and a stone jug of sour wine! How she laughed and nodded as the 
boys ate like wild animals on good behavior, and how blank she 
looked when Ben politely but firmly refused to take any black bread 
and sourkrout! How she pulled off Jacob’s mitten, which was torn 
at the thumb, and mended it before his eyes, biting off the thread 
with her teeth, and saying, “now it will be warmer,” as she bit; and 
finally, how she shook hands with every boy in turn and (throwing 
a deprecating glance at the female automaton) insisted upon filling 
their pockets with gingerbread! 

All this time the knitting needles clicked on, and the pipe never 
missed a puff. 

When the boys were fairly on their way again, they came in sight 
of Zwanenburg Castle with its massive stone front, and its gate-way 
towers, each surmounted with a sculptured swan. 

“Half way, boys,” said Peter, “off with your skates.” 

“You see,” explained Lambert to his companion, “the Y and the 
Haarlem Lake meeting here make it rather troublesome. The river 
is five feet higher than the land — so we must have everything strong 
in the way of dykes and sluice-gates, or there would be wet work at 
once. The sluice arrangements here are supposed to be something 
extra — ^we will walk over them and you shall see enough to make you 
open your eyes. The spring water of the lake, they say, has the most 
wonderful bleaching powers of any in the world; all the great Haar- 


74 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

lem bleacheries use it. I can’t say much upon that subject — but I 
can tell you one thing from personal experience.” 

“What is that?” 

“Why the lake is full of the biggest eels you ever saw — I’ve caught 
them here, often — perfectly prodigious! I tell you they’re some- 
times a match for a fellow, they’d almost wriggle your arm from the 
socket if you were not on your guard. But you’re not interested in 
eels, I perceive. The castle’s a big affair; isn’t it?” 

“Yes. What do those swans mean? Anything?” asked Ben, look- 
ing up at the stone gate-towers. 

“The swan is held almost in reverence by us Hollanders. These 
give the building its name, Zwanenburg — swan-castle. That is all I 
know. This is a very important spot; for it is here that the wise ones 
hold council with regard to dyke matters. The castle was once the 
residence of the celebrated Christiaan Brunings.” 

“What about him?** asked Ben. 

“Peter could answer you better than I,” said Lambert, “if you 
could only understand each other, or were not such cowards about 
leaving your mother-tongues. But I have often heard my grand- 
father speak of Brunings. He is never tired of telling us of the 
great engineer — how good he was, and how learned, and how when 
he died the whole country seemed to mourn as for a friend. He 
belonged to a great many learned societies, and was at the head of the 
State department intrusted with the care of the dykes, and other 
defenses against the sea. There’s no counting the improvements he 
made in dykes and sluices and water-mills, and all that kind of thing. 
We Hollanders, you know, consider our great engineers as the high- 
est of public benefactors. Brunings died years ago; they’ve a monu- 
ment to his memory in the cathedral of Haarlem. I have seen his 
portrait, and I tell you, Ben, he was right noble-looking. No won- 
der the castle looks so stiff and proud. It is something to have given 
shelter to such a man!” 

“Yes, indeed,” said Ben, “I wonder. Van Mounen, whether you 
or I will ever give any old building a right to feel proud — Heigho! 
there’s a great deal to be done yet in this world and some of us who 
are boys now, will have to do it. Look to your shoe latchet, Van, 
it’s unfastened.” 



Chapter VI I 


I T was nearly one o’clock when Captain van Holp and his 
command entered the grand old city of Haarlem. They had 
skated nearly seventeen miles since morning, and were still as 
fresh as young eagles. From the youngest (Ludwig van Holp, who 
was just fourteen) to the eldest, no less a personage than the cap- 
tain himself, a veteran of seventeen, there was but one opinion — 
that this was the greatest frolic of their lives. To be sure, Jacob 
Foot had become rather short of breath, during the last mile or two, 
and perhaps he felt ready for another nap; but there was enough 
jollity in him yet for a dozen. Even Carl Schummel, who had be- 
come very intimate with Ludwig during the excursion, forgot to be 
ill-natured. As for Peter, he was the happiest of the happy, and 
had sung and whistled so joyously while skating that the staidest 
passers-by had smiled as they listened. 

^‘Come, boys I it’s nearly tiffin ‘-hour,” he said, as they neared a 
coffee-house on the main street. “We must have something more 
solid than the pretty maiden’s gingerbread — ” and the captain 
plunged his hands into his pockets as if to say “there’s money enough 
here to feed an army!” 

“Hallo I” cried Lambert, “what ails the man?” 

Peter, pale and staring, was clapping his hands upon his breast and 
sides— he looked like one suddenly becoming deranged. 

“He’s sickl” cried Ben. 

“No, he’s lost something,” said Carl, 


^ Lunch. 


75 


76 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

Peter could only gasp — “the pocketbook! with all our money in it 
— it’s gone I” 

For an instant all were too much startled to speak. 

Carl at last came out with a gruff, 

“No sense in letting one fellow have all the money. I said so from 
the first. Look in your other pocket.” 

“I did — it isn’t there.” 

“Open your under jacket — ” 

Peter obeyed mechanically. He even took off his hat and looked 
into it — then thrust his hand desperately into every pocket. 

“It’s gone, boys,” he said at last, in a hopeless tone. “No tiffin 
for us, nor dinner neither. What is to be done? Wc can’t get on 
without money. If we were in Amsterdam I could get as much as we 
want, but there is not a man in Haarlem from whom I can borrow 
a stiver. Don’t one of you know anyone here who would lend us a 
few guilders?” 

Each boy looked into five blank faces. 

Then something like a smile passed around the circle, but it got 
sadly knotted up when it reached Carl. 

“That wouldn’t do,” he said crossly, “I know some people here, 
rich ones, too, but father would flog me soundly, if I borrowed a cent 
from anyone. He has ‘AN HONEST MAN NEED NOT BORROW,’ writ- 
ten over the gateway of his summer-house.” 

“Humph!” responded Peter, not particularly admiring the senti- 
ment just at that moment. 

The boys grew desperately hungry at once. 

“It was my fault,” said Jacob, in a penitent tone, to Ben. 
“I say first, petter all de boys put zair pursh into Van Holp’s 
monish.” 

“Nonsense, Jacob; you did it all for the best.” 

Ben said this in such a sprightly tone that the two Van Holps and 
Carl felt sure he had proposed a plan that would relieve the party 
at once. 

“What? what? Tell us, Van Mounen,” they cried. 

“He says it is not Jacob’s fault that the money is lost — that he did 
it for the best, when he proposed that Van Holp should put all of our 
money into his purse.” 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 77 

“Is that all?” said Ludwig dismally, “he need not have made such a 
fuss in just saying that. How much money have we lost?” 

“Don’t you remember?” said Peter. “We each put in exactly 
ten guilders. The purse had sixty guilders in it. I am the stupidest 
fellow in the world; little Schimmelpenninck would have made you 
a better captain. I could pommel myself for bringing such a dis- 
appointment upon you.” 

“Do it then,” growled Carl. “Pooh,” he added, “we all know it 
was an accident, but that doesn’t help matters. We must have 
money, Van Holp — even if you have to sell your wonderful watch.” 

“Sell my mother’s birthday present 1 Neverl I will sell my coat, 
my hat, anything but my watch.” 

“Come, come,” said Jacob pleasantly, “we are making too much 
of this affair. We can go home and start again in a day or two.” 

**You may be able to get another ten-guilder piece,” said Carl, 
“but the rest of us will not find it so easy. If we go home, we stay 
home you may depend.” 

Our captain, whose good-nature had not yet forsaken him for a 
moment, grew indignant. 

“Do you think I will let you suffer for my carelessness,” he ex- 
claimed, “I have three times sixty guilders in my strong box at 
homel” 

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Carl, hastily, adding in a surlier 
tone, “well, I see no better way than to go back hungry.” 

“I see a better plan than that,” said the captain. 

“What is it?” cried all the boys. 

“Why, to make the best of a bad business and go back pleasantly, 
and like men,” said Peter, looking so gallant and handsome as he 
turned his frank face and clear blue eyes upon them — that they 
caught his spirit. 

“Ho! for the captain,” they shouted. 

“Now, boys, we may as well make up our minds there’s no place 
like Broek, after all — and that we mean to be there in two hours — is 
that agreed to?” 

“Agreed!” cried all, as they ran to the canal. 

“On with your skates ! Are you ready? Here, J acob, let me help 
you.” 


78 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

“Now. One, two, three, start!” 

And the boyish faces that left Haarlem at that signal were nearly 
as bright as those that had entered it with Captain Peter half an hour 
before. 

“Donder and Blixin!” cried Carl angrily, before the party 
had skated twenty yards from the city gates, “if here isn’t that 
wooden-skate ragamuffin in the patched leather breeches. That 
fellow is everywhere, confound him. We’ll be lucky,” he added, 
in as sneering a tone as he dared to assume, “if our captain 
doesn’t order us to halt and shake hands with him.” 

“Your captain is a terrible fellow,” said Peter, pleasantly, “but 
this is a false alarm, Carl — I cannot spy your bugbear anywhere 
among the skaters — ah I there he is I why what is the matter with the 
lad?” 

Poor Hans! His face was pale, his lips compressed. He skated 
like one under the effects of a fearful dream. Just as he was passing, 
Peter hailed him: 

“Good-day, Hans Brinker!” 

Hans’ countenance brightened at once. — “Ah! mynheer, is that you? 
It is well we meet!” 

“Just like his impertinence,” hissed Carl Schummel, darting scorn- 
fully past his companions, who seemed inclined to linger with their 
captain. 

“I am glad to see you, Hans,” responded Peter, cheerily, “but you 
look troubled. Can I serve you?” 

“I have a trouble, mynheer,” answered Hans, casting down his 
eyes. Then lifting them again with almost a happy expression, 
he added, “but it is Hans who can help Mynheer van Holp this 
time.” 

“How?” asked Peter, making, in his blunt Dutch way, no attempt 
to conceal his surprise. 

“By giving you this, mynheer” — and Hans held forth the missing 
purse. 

“Hurrah!” shouted the boys taking their cold hands from their 
pockets to wave them joyfully in the air. But Peter said “thank 
you, Hans Brinker,” in a tone that made Hans feel as if the king had 
knelt to him. 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 79 

The shout of the delighted boys reached the muffled ears of the 
fine young gentleman who, under a full pressure of pent-up wrath, 
was skating toward Amsterdam. A Y ankee boy would have wheeled 
about at once and hastened to satisfy his curiosity. But Carl only 
halted, and with his back toward his party wondered what on earth 
had happened. There he stood, immovable, until, feeling sure that 
nothing but the prospect of something to eat could have made them 
hurrah so heartily, he turned and skated slowly toward his excited 
comrades. 

Meanwhile Peter had drawn Hans aside from the rest. 

“How did you know it was my purse?” he asked. 

“You paid me three guilders yesterday, mynheer, for making the 
white-wood chain, telling me that I must buy skates.” 

“Yes, I remember.” 

“I saw your purse then ; it was of yellow leather.” 

“And where did you find it to-day?” 

“I left my home this morning, mynheer, in great trouble, and as 
I skated, I took no heed until I stumbled against some lumber, and 
while I was rubbing my knee I saw your purse nearly hidden under a 
log.” 

“That place! Ah, I remember, now; just as we were passing it 
I pulled my tippet from my pocket, and probably flirted out the purse 
at the same time. It would have been gone but for you, Hans. 
Here” — pouring out the contents — “you must give us the pleasure of 
dividing the money with you — ” 

“No, mynheer,” answered Hans. He spoke quietly, without pre- 
tense, or any grace of manner, but Peter, somehow, felt rebuked, and 
put the silver back without a word. 

“I like that boy, rich or poor,” he thought to himself, then added 
aloud, “May I ask about this trouble of yours, Hans?” 

“Ah, mynheer, it is a sad case — but I have waited here too long. 
I am going to Leyden to see the great Doctor Boekman — ” 

Doctor Boekman!” exclaimed Peter in astonishment. 

“Yes, mynheer, and I have not a moment to lose. Good-day!” 

“Stay, I am going that way. Come, my lads! Shall we return to 
Haarlem?” 

“Yes,” cried the boys, eagerly — and off they started. 


8o HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

“Now,” said Peter, drawing near Hans, both skimming the ice so 
easily and lightly as they skated on together that they seemed scarce 
conscious of moving, “we are going to stop at Leyden, and if you are 
going there only with a message to Doctor Boekman cannot I do the 
errand for you? The boys may be too tired to skate so far to-day, but 
I will promise to see him early to-morrow if he is to be found in the 
city,” 

“Ah, mynheer, that would be serving me indeed; it is not the dis- 
tance I dread, but leaving my mother so long.” 

“Is she ill?” 

“No, mynheer. It is the father. You may have heard it; how 
he has been without wit for many a year — ever since the great Schlos- 
sen mill was built ; but his body has been well and strong. Last night, 
the mother knelt upon the hearth to blow the peat (it is his only de- 
light to sit and watch the live embers ; and she will blow them into 
a blaze every hour of the day to please him) . Before she could stir, 
he sprang upon her like a giant and held her close to the fire, all 
the time laughing and shaking his head. I was on the canal; but 
I heard the mother , scream and ran to her. The father had never 
loosened his hold, and her gown was smoking. I tried to deaden 
the fire, but with one hand he pushed me off. There was no water 
in the cottage or I could have done better — and all that time he 
laughed — such a terrible laugh, mynheer; hardly a sound, but all in 
his face — I tried to pull her away, but that only made it worse — then 
— it was dreadful, but could I see the mother burn? I beat him — 
beat him with a stool. He tossed me away. The gown was on firel 
I would put it out. I can’t remember well after that; I found my- 
self upon the floor and the mother was praying — It seemed to me 
that she was in a blaze, and all the while I could hear that laugh. 
My sister Gretel screamed out that he was holding the mother close 
to the very coals, I could not tell ! Gretel flew to the closet and filled 
a porringer with the food he liked, and put it upon the floor. Then, 
mynheer, he left the mother and crawled to it like a little child. She 
was not burnt, only a part of her clothing — ah, how kind she was to 
him all night, watching and tending him — He slept in a high fever, 
with his hands pressed to his head. The mother says he has done 
that so much of late, as though he felt pain there — Ah, mynheer, I 



82 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

did not mean to tell you. If the father was himself, he would not 
harm even a kitten — ” 

For a moment the two boys moved on in silence — 

“It is terrible,” said Peter at last — “How is he to-day?” 

“Very sick, mynheer — ” 

“Why go for Dr. Boekman, Hans? There are others in Amster- 
dam who could help him, perhaps; — Boekman is a famous man, 
sought after by the wealthiest and they often wait upon him in vain?” 

“He promised, mynheer, he promised me yesterday to come to the 
father in a week — but now that the change has come, we cannot wait 
— we think the poor father is dying! — Oh, mynheer, you can plead 
with him to come quick — he will not wait a whole week and our 
father dying — the good meester is so kind — ” 

''So kind!” echoed Peter, in astonishment, “why he is known as the 
crossest man in Holland I” 

“He looks so because he has no fat, and his head is busy but his 
heart is kind, I know — ^Tell the meester what I have told you, myn- 
heer, and he will come.” 

“I hope so, Hans, with all my heart. You are in haste to turn 
homeward I see. Promise me that should you need a friend, you 
will go to my mother, at Broek. Tell her I bade you see her; and, 
Hans Brinker — not as a reward — but as a gift — take a few of these 
guilders.” 

Hans shook his head resolutely. 

“No, no, mynheer — I cannot take it. If I could find work in 
Broek or at the South Mill I would be glad, but it is the same story 
everywhere — ‘wait till Spring.’ ” 

“It is well you speak of it,” said Peter eagerly, “for my father 
needs help at once — ^Your pretty chain pleased him much — he said 
‘that boy has a clean cut, he would be good at carving’ — There is to be 
a craved portal to our new summer-house, and father will pay well for 
the job.” 

“God is good!” cried Hans in sudden delight — “Oh! mynheer, that 
would be too much joy — I have never tried big work — but I can do it 
— I know I can.” 

“Well, tell my father you are the Hans Brinker of whom I spoke. 
He will be glad to serve you.” 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 83 

Hans stared in honest surprise. 

“Thank you, mynheer.” 

“Now, Captain,” shouted Carl, anxious to appear as good-humored 
as possible, by way of atonement, “Here we are in the midst of Haar- 
lem, and no word from you yet — we await your orders, and we’re as 
hungry as wolves.” 

Peter made a cheerful answer, and turned hurriedly to Hans. 

“Come get something to eat, and I will detain you no longer.” 

What a quick, wistful look Hans threw upon him I Peter won- 
dered that he had not noticed before that the poor boy was hungry. 

“Ah, mynheer, even now the mother may need me, the father may 
be worse — I must not wait — May God care for you” — and, nodding 
hastily, Hans turned his face homeward and was gone. 

“Come, boys,” sighed Peter, “now for our tiffin I” 



I T must not be supposed that our young Dutchmen had already 
forgotten the great skating-race which was to take place on the 
twentieth. On the contrary, they had thought and spoken of 
it very often during the day. Even Ben, though he had felt more 
like a traveler than the rest, had never once, through all the sight- 
seeing, lost a certain vision of silver skates which, for a week past, had 
haunted him night and day. 

Like a true “John Bull,” as Jacob had called him, he never doubted 
that his English fleetness, English strength, English everything, could 
at any time enable him, on the ice, to put all Holland to shame, and 
the rest of the world, too, for that matter. Ben certainly was a superb 
skater. He had enjoyed not half the opportunities for practicing 
that had fallen to his new comrades; but he had improved his share 
to the utmost; and was, besides, so strong of frame, so supple of limb 
— in short such a tight, trim, quick, graceful fellow in every way, 
that he had taken to skating as naturally as a chamois to leaping, or 
an eagle to soaring. 

Only to the heavy heart of poor Hans had the vision of the sil- 
ver skates failed to appear during that starry Winter night and the 
brighter sunlit day. 

Even Gretel had seen them flitting before her as she sat beside her 
mother through those hours of weary watching — not as prizes to be 
won, but as treasures passing hopelessly beyond her reach. 

Rychie, Hilda and Katrinka — why they had scarcely known any 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 85 

other thought than “the race! the race I It will come off on the 
twentieth I” 

These three girls were friends. Though of nearly the same age, 
talent and station, they were as different as girls could be. 

Hilda van Gleck you already know, a warm-hearted, noble girl 
of fourteen. Rychie Korbes was beautiful to look upon, far more 
sparkling and pretty than Hilda, but not half so bright and sunny 
within. Clouds of pride, of discontent and envy had already gath- 
ered in her heart, and were growing bigger and darker every day. 
Of course these often relieved themselves very much after the manner 
of other clouds — But who saw the storms and the weeping? Only 
her maid, or her father, mother and little brother — those who loved 
her better than all. Like other clouds, too, hers often took queer 
shapes, and what was really but mist and vapory fancy, assumed the 
appearance of monster wrongs and mountains of difficulty. To her 
mind, the poor peasant-girl Gretel was not a human being, a God- 
created creature like herself — she was only something that meant 
poverty, rags and dirt. Such as Gretel had no right to feel, to hope; 
above all, they should never cross the paths of their betters — that is, 
not in a disagreeable way. They could toil and labor for them at 
a respectful distance, even admire them, if they would do it humbly, 
but nothing more. If they rebel, put them down — If they suffer, 
don’t trouble me about it, was Rychie’s secret motto. And yet how 
witty she was, how tastefully she dressed, how charmingly she sang; 
how much feeling she displayed (for pet kittens and rabbits), and 
how completely she could bewitch sensible, honest-minded lads like 
Lambert van Mounen and Ludwig van Holp! 

Carl was too much like her, within, to be an earnest admirer, and 
perhaps he suspected the clouds. He, being deep and surly, and 
always uncomfortably in earnest, of course preferred the lively Ka- 
trinka, wffiose nature was made of a hundred tinkling bells. She was 
a coquette in her infancy, a coquette in her childhood, and now a co- 
quette in her school days. Without a thought of harm, she coquetted 
with her studies, her duties, even her little troubles. They shouldn’t 
know when they bothered her, not they. She coquetted with her 
mother, her pet lamb, her baby brother, even with her own golden 
curls — tossing them back as if she despised them. Everyone liked 


86 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

her, but who could love her? She was never in earnest. A pleas- 
ant face, a pleasant heart, a pleasant manner — these only satisfy for 
an hour. Poor, happy Katrinka! such as she, tinkle, tinkle so merrily 
through their early days; but Life is so apt to coquette with them 
in turn, to put all their sweet bells out of tune, or to silence them one 
by one I 

How different were the homes of these three girls from the tum- 
bling old cottage where Gretel dwelt. Rychie lived in a beautiful 
house near Amsterdam, where the carved side-boards were laden 
with services of silver and gold, and where silken tapestries hung in 
folds from ceiling to floor. 

Hilda’s father owned the largest mansion in Broek. Its glittering 
roof of polished tiles, and its boarded front, painted in half a dozen 
various colors, were the admiration of the neighborhood. 

Katrinka’s home, not a mile distant, was the finest of Dutch 
country-seats. The garden was so stiffly laid out in little paths and 
patches that the birds might have mistaken it for a great Chinese 
puzzle with all the pieces spread out ready for use. But in Summer 
it was beautiful ; the flowers made the best of their stiff quarters, and, 
when the gardener was not watching, glowed and bent and twined 
about each other in the prettiest way imaginable. Such a tulip bed! 
Why, the Queen of the Fairies would never care for a grander city 
in which to hold her court! but Katrinka preferred the bed of pink 
and white hyacinths. She loved their freshness and fragrance, and 
the light-hearted way in which their bell-shaped blossoms swung in 
the breeze. 

Carl was both right and wrong when he said that Katrinka and 
Rychie were furious at the very idea of the peasant Gretel joining 
in the race. He had heard Rychie declare it was “disgraceful, 
shameful, TOO bad!” which in Dutch, as in English, is generally the 
strongest expression an indignant girl can use; and he had seen Ka- 
trinka nod her pretty head, and heard her sweetly echo “shameful, 
too bad!” as nearly like Rychie as tinkling bells can be like the voice 
of real anger. This had satisfied him. He never suspected that 
had Hilda, not Rychie, first talked with Katrinka upon the subject, 
the bells would have jingled as willing an echo. She would have 
said “certainly, let her join us,” and would have skipped off thinking 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 87 

no more about it. But now Katrinka with sweet emphasis pro- 
nounced it a shame that a goose-girl, a forlorn little creature like 
Gretel should be allowed to spoil the race. 

Rychie being rich and powerful (in a school-girl way) had other 
followers, besides Katrinka, who were induced to share her opinions 
because they were either too careless or too cowardly to think for 
themselves. 

Poor little Gretel 1 Her home was sad and dark enough now. 
Raff Brinker lay moaning upon his rough bed, and his vrouw, for- 
getting and forgiving everything, bathed his forehead, his lips, weep- 
ing and praying that he might not die. Hans, as we know, had 
started, in desperation, for Leyden to search for Dr. Boekmen, and 
induce him, if possible, to come to their father at once. Gretel, 
filled with a strange dread, had done the work as well as she could, 
wiped the rough brick floor, brought peat to build up the slow fire, 
and melted ice for her mother’s use. This accomplished, she seated 
herself upon a low stool near the bed, and begged her mother to try 
and sleep awhile. 

“You are so tired,” she whispered, “not once have you closed your 
eyes since that dreadful hour last night. See, I have straightened the 
willow bed in the corner, and spread everything soft upon it I could 
find, so that the mother might lie in comfort. Here is your jacket. 
Take off that pretty dress. I’ll fold it away very careful, and put it 
in the big chest before you go to sleep.” 

Dame Brinker shook her head without turning her eyes from her 
husband’s face. 

“I can watch, mother,” urged Gretel, “and I’ll wake you every 
time the father stirs. You are so pale, and your eyes are so red — oh, 
mother, do!” 

The child pleaded in vain. Dame Brinker would not leave her 
post. 

Gretel looked at her in troubled silence, wondering whether it were 
very wicked to care more for one parent than for the other— s-and 
sure, yes, quite sure, that she dreaded her father, while she clung to 
her mother with a love that was almost idolatry. 

“Hans loves the father so well,” she thought, “why cannot I? Yet 
I could not help crying when I saw his hand bleed that day, last 


88 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

month, when he snatched the knife — and now, when he moans, how 
I ache, ache all over. Perhaps I love him, after all, and God will 
see I am not such a bad, wicked girl as I thought. Yes, I love the 
poor father — almost as Hans does — not quite, for Hans is stronger 
and does not fear him. Oh, will that moaning go on forever and 
everl Poor mother, how patient she is; she never pouts, as I do, 
about the money that went away so strange. If he only could, just 
for one instant, open his eyes and look at us, as Hans does, and tell us 
where mother’s guilders went, I would not care for the rest — yes, 
I would care — I don’t want the poor father to die, to be all blue and 
cold like Annie Bouman’s little sister — I know I don’t — dear God, 
I don’t want father to die.” 

Her thoughts merged into a prayer. When it ended, the poor 
child scarcely knew. Soon she found herself watching a little pulse 
of light at the side of the fire, beating faintly but steadily, showing 
that somewhere in the dark pile there was warmth and light that 
would overspread it at last. A large earthen cup filled with burning 
peat stood near the bed-side; Gretel had placed it there to “stop the 
father’s shivering,” she said. She watched it as it sent a glow around 
the mother’s form, tipping her faded skirt with light, and shedding a 
sort of newness over the threadbare bodice. It was a relief to Gretel 
to see the lines in that weary face soften as the fire-light flickered 
gently across it. 

Next she counted the window-panes, broken and patched as they 
were; and finally, after tracing every crack and seam in the walls, 
fixed her gaze upon a carved shelf made by Hans. The shelf hung 
as high as Gretel could reach. It held a large leather-covered Bible, 
with brass clasps, a wedding present to Dame Brinker from the family 
at Heidelberg. 

“Ah, how handy Hans is I If he were here he could turn the father 
some way so the moans would stop — dear! dear! if this sickness lasts, 
we shall never skate any more. I must send my new skates back to 
the beautiful lady. Hans and I will not see the race,” and Gretel’s 
eyes, that had been dry before, grew full of tears. 

“Never cry, child,” said her mother soothingly. “This sickness 
may not be as bad as we think. The father has lain this way before.” 

Gretel sobbed now, 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 89 

“Oh, mother, it is not that alone — you do not know all — I am very, 
very bad and wicked 1” 

''You, Gretel! you so patient and goodl” and a bright, puzzled 
look beamed for an instant upon the child. “Hush, lovey, you’ll 
wake him.” 

Gretel hid her face in her mother’s lap and tried not to cry. 

Her little hand, so thin and brown, lay in the coarse palm of her 
mother, creased with many a hard day’s work. Rychie would have 
shuddered to touch either, yet they pressed warmly upon each other. 
Soon Gretel looked up with that dull, homely look which, they say, 
poor children in shanties are apt to have, and said in a trembling 
voice: 

“The father tried to burn you — he did — I saw him, and he was 
laughingr 

“Hush, child!” 

The mother’s words came so suddenly and sharply, that Raff Drin- 
ker, dead as he was to all that was passing round him, twitched slightly 
upon the bed. 

Gretel said no more, but plucked drearily at the jagged edge of a 
hole in her mother’s holiday gown. It had been burned there — ^well 
for Dame Drinker that the gown was woolen. 

Refreshed and rested, our boys came forth from the coffee-house 
just as the big clock in the Square, after the manner of certain Hol- 
land time-keepers, was striking two with its half-hour bell, for half- 
past two. 

The captain was absorbed in thought, at first, for Hans Drinker’s 
sad story still echoed in his ears. Not until Ludwig rebuked him 
with a laughing “Wake up. Grandfather!” did he reassume his po- 
sition as gallant boy-leader of his band. 

“Ahem ! this way, young gentlemen !” 

They were walking through the streets of the city, not a curbed 
sidewalk, for such a thing is rarely to be found in Holland, but on the 
brick pavement that lay on the borders of the cobble-stone carriage- 
way without breaking its level expanse. 

Haarlem, like Amsterdam, was gayer than usual, in honor of St. 
Nicholas. 

A strange figure was approaching them. It was a small man 


90 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

dressed in black, with a short cloak; he wore a wig and a cocked hat 
from which a long crape streamer was flying. 

“Who comes here?” cried Ben, “what a queer-looking object.” 

“That’s the aanspreeker” said Lambert, “someone is dead.” 

“Is that the way men dress in mourning in this country?” 

“Oh, no. The aanspreeker attends funerals, and it is his business, 
when anyone dies, to notify all the friends and relatives.” 

“What a strange custom.” 

“Well,” said Lambert, “we needn’t feel very badly about this par- 
ticular death, for I see another man has lately been born to the world 
to fill up the vacant place.” 

Ben stared. “How do you know that?” 

“Don’t you see that pretty red pin-cushion hanging on yonder 
door?” asked Lambert in return. 

“Yes.” 

“Well, that’s a boy.” 

“A boyl What do you mean?’* 

“I mean that here in Haarlem whenever a boy is born, the parents 
have a red pin-cushion put out at the door. If our young friend had 
been a girl instead of a boy the cushion would have been white. In 
some places they have much more fanciful affairs, all trimmed with 
lace, and even among the very poorest houses you will see a bit of 
ribbon or even a string tied on the door latch — ” 

“Look!” almost screamed Ben, “there is a white cushion at the door 
of that double-jointed house with the funny roof.” 

“I don’t see any house with a funny roof.” 

“Oh, of course not,” said Ben, “I forget you’re a native; but all 
the roofs are queer to me, for that matter. I mean the house next to 
that green building.” 

“True enough — there’s a girl! I tell you what, captain,” called 
out Lambert, slipping easily into Dutch, “we must get out of this 
street as soon as possible. It’s full of babies! They’ll set up a squall 
in a moment.” 

The captain laughed. “I shall take you to hear better music than 
that,” he said; “we are just in time to hear the organ of St. Bavon. 
The church is open to-day.” 

“What, the great Haarlem organ?” asked Ben. “That will be a 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 91 

treat indeed. I have often read of it, with its tremendous pipes, and 
its vox humana ^ that sounds like a giant singing.” 

“The same,” answered Lambert van Mounen. 

Peter was right. The church was open, though not for religious 
services. Someone was playing upon the organ. As the boys en- 
tered, a swell of sound rushed forth to meet them. It seemed to bear 
them, one by one, into the shadows of the building. 

Louder and louder it grew until it became like the din and roar 
of some mighty tempest, or like the ocean surging upon the shore. 
In the midst of the tumult a tinkling bell was heard; another an- 
swered, then another, and the storm paused as if to listen. The bells 
grew bolder; they rang out loud and clear. Other deep-toned bells 
joined in; they were tolling in solemn concert — ding, dong I ding, 
dong! The storm broke forth again with redoubled fury — gather- 
ing its distant thunder. The boys looked at each other, but did not 
speak. It was growing serious. What was that? PFho screamed? 
What screamed — that terrible, musical scream? Was it man or 
demon? Or was it some monster shut up behind that carved brass 
frame — behind those great silver columns — some despairing monster 
begging, screaming for freedom? It was the Vox Humana! 

At last an answer came, — soft, tender, loving, like a mother’s song. 
The storm grew silent; hidden birds sprang forth filling the air with 
glad, ecstatic music, rising higher and higher until the last faint note 
was lost in the distance. 

The Vox Humana was stilled; but in the glorious hymn of thanks- 
giving that now arose, one could almost hear the throbbing of a hu- 
man heart. What did it mean? That man’s imploring cry should 
in time be met with a deep content? That gratitude would give us 
freedom? To Peter and Ben it seemed that the angels were singing. 
Their eyes grew dim, and their souls dizzy with a strange joy. At 
last, as if borne upward by invisible hands, they were floating away 
on the music, all fatigue forgotten, and with no wish but to hear for- 
ever those beautiful sounds — when suddenly Van Holp’s sleeve was 
pulled impatiently and a gruff voice beside him asked. 

“How long are you going to stay here, captain — blinking at the 
ceiling like a sick rabbit? It’s high time we started.” 

^ An organ stop which produces an effect resembling the human voice. 


92 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

“Hush!” whispered Peter, only half aroused. 

“Come, man! Let’s go,” said Carl, giving the sleeve a second 
pull. 

Peter turned reluctantly; he would not detain the boys against 
their will. All but Ben were casting rather reproachful glances upon 
him. 

“Well, boys,” he whispered, “we will go. Softly now.” 

“That’s the greatest thing I’ve seen or heard since I’ve been in Hol- 
land!” cried Ben, enthusiastically, as soon as they reached the open 
air. “It’s glorious!” 

Ludwig and Carl laughed slyly at the English boy’s wartaal, or 
gibberish; Jacob yawned; Peter gave Ben a look that made him 
instantly feel that he and Peter were not so very different after all, 
though one hailed from Holland and the other from England; and 
Lambert, the interpreter, responded with a brisk — 

“You may well say so. I believe there are one or two organs now- 
a-days that are said to be as fine; but for years and years this organ of 
St. Bavon was the grandest in the world.” 

“Do you know how large it is?” asked Ben. “I noticed that the 
church itself was prodigiously high and that the organ filled the end 
of the great aisle almost from floor to roof.” 

“That’s true,” said Lambert, “and how superb the pipes looked — 
just like grand columns of silver. They’re only for show, you know; 
the real pipes are behind them, some big enough for a man to crawl 
through, and some smaller than a baby’s whistle. Well, sir, for size, 
the church is higher than Westminster Abbey, to begin with, and, as 
you say, the organ makes a tremendous show even then. Father told 
me last night that it is one hundred and eight feet high, fifty feet 
broad, and has over five thousand pipes; it has sixty-four stops, if 
you know what they are, I don’t, and three key-boards.” 

“Good for you!” said Ben. “You have a fine memory. My head 
is a perfect colander for figures; they slip through as fast as they’re 
poured in. But other facts and historical events stay behind — that’s 
some consolation.” 

“There we differ,” returned Van Mounen, “I’m great on names and 
figures, but history, take it altogether, seems to me to be the most 
hopeless kind of a jumble.” 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 93 

Meantime Carl and Ludwig were having a discussion concerning 
some' square wooden monuments they had observed in the interior 
of the church ; Ludwig declared that each bore the name of the per- 
son buried beneath, and Carl insisted that they had no names, but 
only the heraldic arms of the deceased painted on a black ground, 
with the date of the death in gilt letters. 

“I ought to know,” said Carl, “for I walked across to the east 
side, to look for the cannon-ball which mother told me was em- 
bedded there. It was fired into the church, in the year fifteen hun- 
dred and something, by those rascally Spaniards, while the services 
were going on. There it was in the wall, sure enough, and while I 
was walking back, I noticed the monuments — I tell you they haven’t 
a sign of a name upon them.” 

“Ask Peter,” said Ludwig, only half convinced. 

“Carl is right,” replied Peter, who though conversing with Jacob, 
had overheard their dispute. “Well, Jacob, as I was saying, Han- 
del, the great composer, chanced to visit Haarlem and of course he 
at once hunted up this famous organ. He gained admittance, and 
was playing upon it with all his might, when the regular organist 
chanced to enter the building. The man stood awe-struck; he was 
a good player himself, but he had never heard such music before. 
‘Who is there?’ he cried, ‘If it is not an angel or the devil, it must 
be Handel!’ When he discovered that it was the great musician, 
he was still more mystified! ‘But how is this?’ said he, ‘you have 
done impossible things — no ten fingers on earth can play the passages 
you have given ; human hands couldn’t control all the keys and stops !’ 
‘I know it;’ said Handel, coolly, ‘and for that reason, I was forced 
to strike some notes with the end of my nose.’ Bonder! just think 
how the old organist must have stared!” 

“Hey! What?” exclaimed Jacob, startled when Peter’s animated 
voice suddenly became silent. 

“Haven’t you heard me, you rascal?” was the indignant rejoinder. 

“Oh, yes — no — the fact is — I heard you at first — I’m awake now, 
but I do believe I’ve been walking beside you half asleep,” stam- 
mered Jacob, with such a doleful, bewildered look on his face, that 
Peter could not help laughing. 

After leaving the church, the boys stopped near by in the open 


94 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

market-place, to look at the bronze statue of Laurens Janzoon Coster, 
who is believed by the Dutch to have been the inventor of printing. 
This is disputed by those who award the same honor to Johannes 
Guttemberg of Mayence; while many maintain that Faustus, a serv- 
ant of Coster, stole his master’s wooden types on a Christmas eve, 
when the latter was at church, and fled with his booty, and his secret, 
to Mayence. Coster was a native of Haarlem, and the Hollanders 
are naturally anxious to secure the credit of the invention for their 
illustrious townsman. Certain it is, that the first book he printed, 
is kept, by the city, in a silver case wrapped in silk, and is shown with 
great caution as a most precious relic. It is said, he first conceived 
the idea of printing from cutting his name upon the bark of a tree, 
and afterwards pressing a piece of paper upon the characters. 

Of course Lambert and his English friend fully discussed this sub- 
ject. They also had rather a warm argument concerning another 
invention. Lambert declared that the honor of giving both the tele- 
scope and microscope to the world lay between Metius and Jansen, 
both Hollanders; while Ben as stoutly insisted that Roger Bacon, an 
English monk of the thirteenth century, “wrote out the whole thing, 
sir, perfect descriptions of microscopes and telescopes, too, long be- 
fore either of those other fellows were born.” 

On one subject, however, they both agreed : that the art of curing 
and pickling herrings was discovered by William Beukles of Hol- 
land, and that the country did perfectly right in honoring him as a 
national benefactor, for its wealth and importance had been in a 
great measure due to its herring trade. 

“It is astonishing,” said Ben, “in what prodigious quantities those 
fish are found. I don’t know how it is here, but on the coast of Eng- 
land, off Yarmouth, the herring shoals have been known to be six 
and seven feet deep with fish.” 

“That ts prodigious, indeed,” said Lambert, “but you know your 
word herring is derived from the German heer, an army, on account 
of a way the fish have of coming in large numbers.” 

Soon afterward, while passing a cobbler’s shop, Ben exclaimed: 

“Hallo! Lambert, here is the name of one of your greatest men 
over a cobbler’s stall! Boerhaave — if it were only Herman Boer- 
haave instead of Hendrick, it would be complete.” 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 95 

Lambert knit his brows reflectively, as he replied: 

“Boerhaave — Boerhaave — the name is perfectly familiar; I re- 
member, too, he was born in 1668, but the rest is all gone, as usual. 
There have been so many famous Hollanders, you see, it is impossi- 
ble for a fellow to know them all. What was he? Did he have two 
heads? or was he one of your great, natural swimmers like Marco 
Polo?” 

“He had four heads,” answered Ben, laughing, “for he was a great 
physician, naturalist, botanist and chemist. I am full of him just 
now, for I read his life a few weeks ago.” 

“Pour out a little, then,” said Lambert, “only walk faster, we shall 
lose sight of the other boys.” 

“Well,” resumed Ben, quickening his pace, and looking with great 
interest at everything going on in the crowded street. “This Dr. 
Boerhaave was a great anspewker.” 

“A great what?'' roared Lambert. 

“Oh, I beg pardon — I was thinking of that man over there, with 
the cocked hat. He’s an anspewker, isn’t he?” 

“Yes. He’s an aanspreeker — if that is what you mean to say. But 
what about your friend with the four heads?” 

“Well, as I was going to say, the doctor was left a penniless orphan 
at sixteen without education or friends.” 

“Jolly beginning!” interposed Lambert. 

“Now, don’t interrupt. He was a poor friendless orphan at six- 
teen, but he was so persevering and industrious, so determined to 
gain knowledge, that he made his way, and in time became one of the 
most learned men of Europe. All the — what is that?” 

“Where? What do you mean?” 

“Why, that paper on the door opposite. Don’t you see? Two or 
three persons are reading it; I have noticed several of these papers 
since Pve been here.” 

“Oh, that’s only a health-bulletin. Somebody in the house is ill, 
and to prevent a steady knocking at the door, the family write an 
account of the patient’s condition, on a placard, and hang it outside 
the door, for the benefit of inquiring friends — a very sensible custom, 
I’m sure. Nothing strange about it that I can see — go on, please — 
you said ‘all the’ — and there you left me hanging.” 


96 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

“I was going to say,” resumed Ben, “that all the — all the — how 
comically persons do dress here, to be sure! Just look at those men 
and women with their sugar-loaf hats — and see this woman ahead 
of us with a straw-bonnet like a scoop-shovel tapering to a point in 
the back. Did ever you see anything so funny? And those tremen- 
dous wooden shoes, too — I declare she’s a beauty!” 

“Oh, they are only back-country folk,” said Lambert, rather im- 
patiently — “You might as well let old Boerhaave drop, or else shut 
your eyes — ” 

“Ha! ha! Well, I was going to say — all the big men of his day 
sought out this great professor. Even Peter the Great when he came 
over to Holland from Russia to learn ship-buildingj attended his 
lectures regularly. By that time Boerhaave was professor of Medi- 
cine and Chemistry and Botany in the University of Leyden. He 
had grown to be very wealthy as a practicing physician; but he used 
to say that the poor were his best patients because God would be their 
paymaster. All Europe learned to love and honor him. In short, 
he became so famous that a certain mandarin of China addressed a 
letter to ‘The illustrious Boerhaave, physician in Europe,’ and the 
letter found its way to him without any difficulty.” 

“My goodness! That is what I call being a public character. 
The boys have stopped. How now. Captain van Holp, where next?” 

“We propose to move on,” said Van Holp, “there is nothing to 
see at this season in the Bosch — the Bosch is a noble wood, Benjamin, 
a grand Park where they have most magnificent trees, protected by 
law — Do you understand?” 

“Ya!” nodded Ben, as the captain proceeded: 

“Unless you all desire to visit the Museum of Natural History, we 
may go on the grand canal again. If we had more time it would be 
pleasant to take Benjamin up the Blue Stairs.” 

“What are the Blue Stairs, Lambert?” asked Ben. 

“They are the highest point of the dunes. You have a grand view 
of the ocean from there, besides a fine chance to see how wonderful 
these dunes are. One can hardly believe that the wind could ever 
heap up sand in so remarkable a way. But we have to go through 
Bloemendal to get there — not a very pretty village, and some dis- 
tance from here. What do you say?” 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 97 

“Oh, I am ready for anything. For my part, I would rather steer 
direct for Leyden, but we’ll do as the captain says — hey, Jacob?” 

“Ya, dat ish goot,” said Jacob, who felt decidedly more like taking 
another nap than ascending the Blue Stairs. 

The captain was in favor of going to Leyden. 

“It’s four long miles from here. (Full sixteen of your English 
miles, Benjamin.) We have no time to lose if you wish to reach 
there before midnight. Decide quickly, boys — Blue Stairs or Ley- 
den?” 

“Leyden,” they answered — and were out of Haarlem in a twink- 
ling, admiring the lofty, tower-like windmills and pretty country- 
seats as they left the city behind them. 

“If you really wish to see Haarlem,” said Lambert to Ben, after 
they had skated awhile in silence, “You should visit it in summer. 
It is tlie greatest place in the world for beautiful flowers. The walks 
around the city are superb ; and the ‘Wood’ with its miles of noble 
elms, all in full feather, is something to remember. You need not 
smile, old fellow, at my saying ‘full feather’ — I was thinking of wav- 
ing plumes, and got my words mixed up a little. But a Dutch elm 
beats everything; it is the noblest tree on earth, Ben — if you except 
the English oak — ” 

“Aye,” said Ben, solemnly, you except the English oak” — and 
for some moments he could scarcely see the canal because Robby and 
Jenny kept bobbing in the air before his eyes. 

Meantime, the other boys were listening to Peter’s account of an 
incident which had long ago occurred ^ in a part of the city where 
stood an ancient castle, whose lord had tyrannized over the burghers 
of the town to such an extent, that they surrounded his castle, and 
laid siege to it. Just at the last extremity, when the haughty lord 
felt that he could hold out no longer, and was preparing to sell his 
life as dearly as possible, his lady appeared on the ramparts, and 
offered to surrender everything, provided she was permitted to bring 
out, and retain, as much of her most precious household goods as 
she could carry upon her back. The promise was given — and forth 
came the lady from the gate-way, bearing her husband upon her 
shoulders. The burghers’ pledge preserved him from the fury of 

^Sir Thomas Carr’s Tour through Holland. 


98 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

the troops, but left them free to wreak their vengeance upon the 
castle. 

“Do you believe that story, Captain Peter?” asked Carl, in an in- 
credulous tone. 

“Of course, I do; it is historical. Why should I doubt it?” 

“Simply because no woman could do it — and, if she could, she 
wouldn’t. That is my opinion.” 

“And I believe there are many who would . — That is, to save any- 
one they really cared for,” said Ludwig. 

Jacob, who in spite of his fat and sleepiness, was of rather a senti- 
mental turn, had listened with deep interest. 

“That is right, little fellow,” he said, nodding his head approv- 
ingly, “I believe every word of it. I shall never marry a woman 
who would not be glad to do as much for me.” 

“Heaven help herl” cried Carl, turning to gaze at the speaker, 
“why, Foot, three men couldn’t do it!” 

“Perhaps not,” said Jacob quietly — feeling that he had asked rather 
too much of the future Mrs. Foot. “But she must be willing, that 
is all.” 

“Aye,” responded Peter’s cheery voice, “willing heart makes nim- 
ble foot — and who knows, but it may make strong arms also.” 

“Pete,” asked Ludwig, changing the subject, “did you tell me last 
night that the painter Wouvermans was born in Haarlem?” 

“Yes, and Jacob Ruysdael and Berghem, too. I like Berghem be- 
cause he was always good-natured — they say he always sang while 
he painted, and though he died nearly two hundred years ago, there 
are traditions still afloat concerning his pleasant laugh. He was a 
great painter, and he had a wife as cross as Xantippe.” 

“They balanced each other finely,” said Ludwig, “he was kind and 
she was cross. But, Peter, before I forget it, wasn’t that picture of 
St. Hubert and the Horse painted by Wouvermans? You remem- 
ber father showed us an engraving from it last night.” 

“Yes, indeed; there is a story connected with that picture.” 

“Tell usl” cried two or three, drawing closer to Peter as they 
skated on. 

“Wouvermans,” began the captain, oratorically, “was born in 1620, 
just four years before Berghem. He was a master of his art, and 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 99 

especially excelled in painting horses. Strange as it may seem, people 
were so long finding out his merits, that, even after he had arrived 
at the height of his excellence, he was obliged to sell his pictures 
for very paltry prices. The poor artist became completely dis- 
couraged, and, worse than all, was over head and ears in debt. One 
day he was talking over his troubles with his father-confessor, who 
was one of the few who recognized his genius. The priest deter- 
mined to assist him, and accordingly lent him six hundred guilders, 
advising him at the same time to demand a better price for his pic- 
tures. Wouvermans did so, and in the meantime paid his debts. 
Matters brightened with him at once. Everybody appreciated the 
great artist who painted such costly pictures. He grew rich. The 
six hundred guilders were returned, and in gratitude, Wouvermans 
sent also a work which he had painted, representing his benefactor as 
Saint Hubert kneeling before his horse — the very picture, Ludwig, 
of which we were speaking last night.” 

“So! so!” exclaimed Ludwig, with deep interest, “I must take an- 
other look at the engraving as soon as we get home.” 

At that same hour, while Ben was skating with his companions be- 
side the Holland dyke, Robby and Jenny stood in their pretty Eng- 
lish school-house, ready to join in the duties of their reading class. 

“Commence! Master Robert Dobbs,” said the teacher, “page 242, 
now, sir, mind every stop.” 

And Robby, in a quick childish voice, roared forth at school-room 
pitch: 

‘‘lesson 62.' — ^THE HERO OF HAARLEM. 

“Many years ago, there lived in Haarlem, one of the principal 
cities of Holland, a sunny-haired boy, of gentle disposition. His 
father was a sluicer, that is, a man whose business it was to open and 
close the sluices, or large oaken gates, that are placed at regular dis- 
tances across the entrances of the canals, to regulate the amount of 
water that shall flow into them. 

“The sluicer raises the gates more or less according to the quantity 
of water required, and closes them carefully at night, in order to avoid 
all possible danger of an oversupply running into the canal, or the 


100 HANS DRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

water would soon overflow it and inundate the surrounding country. 
As a great portion of Holland is lower than the level of the sea, the 
waters are kept from flooding the land, only by means of strong dykes, 
or barriers, and by means of these sluices, which are often strained to 
the utmost by the pressure of the rising tides. Even the little chil- 
dren in Holland know that constant watchfulness is required to keep 
the rivers and ocean from overwhelming the country, and that a mo- 
ment’s neglect of the sluicer’s duty may bring ruin and death to all.” 

[“Very good,” said the teacher; “now, Susan.”] 

“One lovely autumn afternoon, when the boy was about eight years 
old, he obtained his parents’ consent to carry some cakes to a blind 
man who lived out in the country, on the other side of the dyke. 
The little fellow started on his errand with a light heart, and having 
spent an hour with his grateful old friend, he bade him farewell and 
started on his homeward walk. 

“Trudging stoutly along by the canal, he noticed how the autumn 
rains had swollen the waters. Even while humming his careless, 
childish song, he thought of his father’s brave old gates and felt glad 
of their strength, for, thought he, ‘if they gave way, where would 
father and mother be? These pretty fields would be all covered 
with the angry waters — father always calls them the angry waters, 
I suppose he thinks they are mad at him for keeping them out so long.’ 
And with these thoughts just flitting across his brain, the little fel- 
low stooped to pick the pretty blue flowers that grew along his way. 
Sometimes he stopped to throw some feathery seed-ball in the air, 
and watch it as it floated away; sometimes he listened to the stealthy 
rustling of a rabbit, speeding through the grass, but oftener he smiled 
as he recalled the happy light he had seen arise on the weary, listen- 
ing face of his blind old friend.” 

[“Now, Henry,” said the teacher, nodding to the next little 
reader.] 

“Suddenly the boy looked around him in dismay. He had not 
noticed that the sun was setting; now he saw that his long shadow 
on the grass had vanished. It was growing dark, he was still some dis- 
tance from home, and in a lonely ravine, while even the blue flow- 
ers had turned to gray. He quickened his footsteps; and with a 
beating heart recalled many a nursery tale of children belated in 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES loi 

dreary forests. Just as he was bracing himself for a run, he was 
startled by the sound of trickling water. Whence did it come? He 
looked up and saw a small hole in the dyke through which a tiny 
stream was flowing. Any child in Holland will shudder at the 
thought of a leak in the dyke! The boy understood the danger at 
a glance. That little hole, if the water were allowed to trickle 
through, would soon be a large one, and a terrible inundation would 
be the result. 

“Quick as a flash, he saw his duty. Throwing away his flowers, 
the boy clambered up the heights, until he reached the hole. His 
chubby little finger was thrust in, almost before he knew it. The 
flowing was stopped ! ‘Ah 1’ he thought, with a chuckle of boyish de- 
light, ‘the angry waters must stay back now I Haarlem shall not be 
drowned while I am here!’ 

“This was all very well at first, but the night was falling rapidly; 
chill vapors filled the air. Our little hero began to tremble with cold 
and dread. He shouted loudly ; he screamed ‘come here 1 come here P 
but no one came. The cold grew more intense, a numbness, com- 
mencing in the tired little finger, crept over his hand and arm, and 
soon his whole body was filled with pain. He shouted again, ‘will no 
one come? Mother I mother!’ Alas, his mother, good, practical 
soul, had already locked the doors, and had fully resolved to scold 
him on the morrow, for spending the night with blind Jansen without 
her permission. He tried to whistle, perhaps some straggling boy 
might heed the signal; but his teeth chattered so, it was impossible. 
Then he called on God for help; and the answer came, through a 
holy resolution — ‘I will stay here till morning.’ ” 

[“Now, Jenny Dobbs,” said the teacher. Jenny’s eyes were glisten- 
ing, but she took a long breath and commenced:] 

“The midnight moon looked down upon that small solitary form, 
sitting upon a stone, half-way up the dyke. His head was bent, but 
he was not asleep, for every now and then one restless hand rubbed 
feebly the outstretched arm that seemed fastened to the dyke — and 
often the pale, tearful face turned quickly at some real or fancied 
sound. 

“How can we know the sufferings of that long and fearful watch 
— what falterings of purpose, what childish terrors came over the 


102 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

boy as he thought of the warm little bed at home, of his parents, his 
brothers and sisters, then looked into the cold, dreary night! If he 
drew away that tiny finger, the angry waters, grown angrier still, 
would rush forth, and never stop until they had swept over the town. 
No, he would hold it there till daylight — if he lived! He was not 
very sure of living. What did this strange buzzing mean? and then 
the knives that seemed pricking and piercing him from head to foot? 
He was not certain now that he could draw his finger away, even if he 
wished to. 

“At daybreak a clergyman, returning from the bedside of a sick 
parishioner, thought he heard groans as he walked along on the top 
of the dyke. Bending, he saw, far down on the side, a child appar- 
ently writhing with pain. 

“ ‘In the name of wonder, boy,’ he exclaimed, ‘what are you doing 
there?’ 

“ ‘I am keeping the water from running out,’ was the simple an- 
swer of the little hero. ‘Tell them to come quick.’ 

“It is needless to add that they did come quickly and that — ” 

[“Jenny Dobbs,” said the teacher, rather impatiently, “if you can- 
not control your feelings so as to read distinctly, we will wait until 
you recover yourself.” 

“Yes, sir!” said Jenny, quite startled.] 

It was strange ; but at that very moment, Ben, far over the sea, was 
saying to Lambert — 

“The noble little fellow! I have frequently met with an account 
of the incident, but I never knew, till now, that it was really true.” 

“True! Of course it is,” said Lambert, kindling. “I have given 
you the story just as mother told it to me, years ago. Why, there is 
not a child in Holland who does not know it. And, Ben, you may 
not think so, but that little boy represents the spirit of the whole coun- 
try. Not a leak can show itself anywhere either in its politics, 
honor, or public safety, that a million fingers are not ready to stop 
it, at any cost.” 

“Whew!” cried Master Ben, “big talking that!” 

“It’s true talk anyway,” rejoined Lambert, so very quietly that Ben 
wisely resolved to make no further comment. 



T he skating season had commenced unusually early; our boys 
so fine, that men, women and children, bent upon enjoying 
were by no means alone upon the ice. The afternoon was 
the holiday, had flocked to the grand canal from far and near. Saint 
Nicholas had evidently remembered the favorite pastime; shining 
new skates were everywhere to be seen. Whole families were skim- 
ming their way to Haarlem or Leyden or the neighboring villages. 
The ice seemed fairly alive. Men noticed the erect, easy carriage 
of the women, and their picturesque variety of costume. There 
were the latest fashions, fresh from Paris, floating past dingy, moth- 
eaten garments that had seen service through two generations; coal- 
scuttle bonnets perched over freckled faces bright with holiday 
smiles; stiff muslin caps, with wings at the sides, flapping beside 
cheeks rosy with health and contentment; furs, too, encircling the 
whitest of throats; and scanty garments fluttering below faces ruddy 
with exercise — In short every quaint and comical mixture of dry- 
goods and flesh that Holland could furnish, seemed sent to enliven 
the scene. 

There were belles from Leyden, and fishwives from the border 
villages ; cheese women from Gouda, and prim matrons from beauti- 
ful country-seats on the Haarlemmer Meer. Gray-headed skaters 
were constantly to be seen ; wrinkled old women, with baskets upon 
their heads; and plump little toddlers on skates clutching at their 
mothers’ gowns. Some women carried their babies upon their backs, 
firmly secured with a bright shawl. The effect was pretty and grace- 

103 


104 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

fill as they darted by, or sailed slowly past, now nodding to an ac- 
quaintance, now chirruping, and throwing soft baby-talk, to the 
muffled little ones they carried. 

Boys and girls were chasing each other, and hiding behind the one- 
horse sleds, that, loaded high with peat or timber, pursued their cau- 
tious way along the track marked out as “safe.” Beautiful, queenly 
women were there, enjoyment sparkling in their quiet eyes. Some- 
times a long file of young men, each grasping the coat of the one be- 
fore him, flew by with electric speed ; and sometimes the ice squeaked 
under the chair of some gorgeous old dowager, or rich burgomaster’s 
lady — who, very red in the nose, and sharp in the eyes, looked like 
a scare-thaw invented by old father Winter for the protection of his 
skating grounds. The chair would be heavy with foot-stoves and 
cushions, to say nothing of the old lady. Mounted upon shining run- 
ners it slid along, pushed by the sleepiest of servants, who, looking 
neither to the right nor the left, bent himself to his task while she cast 
direful glances upon the screaming little rowdies who invariably 
acted as body-guard. 

As for the men, they were pictures of placid enjoyment. Some 
were attired in ordinary citizen’s dress; but many looked odd enough 
with their short woolen coats, wide breeches, and big silver buckles. 
These seemed to Ben like little boys who had, by a miracle, sprung 
suddenly into manhood, and were forced to wear garments that their 
astonished mothers had altered in a hurry. He noticed, too, that 
nearly all the men had pipes, as they passed him whizzing and smok- 
ing like so many locomotives. There was every variety of pipes from 
those of common clay to the most expensive meerschaums mounted 
in silver and gold. Some were carved into extraordinary and fan- 
tastic shapes, representing birds, flowers, heads, bugs, and dozens of 
other things; some resembled the “Dutchman’s pipe” that grows in 
our American woods ; some were red, and many were of a pure snowy 
white; but the most respectable were those which were ripening into 
a shaded brown — The deeper and richer the brown, of course the 
more honored the pipe, for it was a proof that the owner, if honestly 
shading it, was deliberately devoting his manhood to the effort — 
What pipe would not be proud to be the object of such a sacrifice! 

For awhile, Ben skated on in silence. There was so much to en- 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 105 

gage his attention that he almost forgot his companions. Part of 
the time he had been watching the ice-boats as they flew over the 
great Haarlemmer Meer (or Lake), the frozen surface of which 
w^as now plainly visible from the canal. These boats had very large 
sails, much larger, in proportion, than those of ordinary vessels, and 
were set upon a triangular frame furnished with an iron “runner” at 
each corner, — the widest part of the triangle crossing the bow, and 
its point stretching beyond the stern. They had rudders for guiding, 
and brakes for arresting their progress; and were of all sizes and 
kinds, from small, rough affairs managed by a boy, to large and 
beautiful ones filled with gay pleasure parties, and manned by compe- 
tent sailors, who, smoking their stumpy pipes, reefed and tacked and 
steered with great solemnity and precision. 

Some of the boats were painted and gilded in gaudy style and 
flaunted gay pennons from their mast-heads; others white as snow, 
with every spotless sail rounded by the wind, looked like swans borne 
onward by a resistless current. It seemed to Ben as, following his 
fancy, he watched one of these in the distance, that he could almost 
hear its helpless, terrified cry, but he soon found that the sound arose 
from a nearer and less romantic cause — from an ice-boat not fifty 
yards from him, using its brakes to avoid a collision with a peat-sled. 

It was a rare thing for these boats to be upon the canal and their 
appearance generally caused no little excitement among skaters, es- 
pecially among the timid; but to-day every ice-boat in the country 
seemed afloat or rather aslide, and the canal had its full share. 

Ben, though delighted at the sight, was often startled at the swift 
approach of the resistless, high-winged things threatening to dart in 
any and every possible direction. It required all his energies to keep 
out of the way of the passers-by, and to prevent those screaming little 
urchins from upsetting him with their sleds. Once he halted to watch 
some boys who were making a hole in the ice preparatory to using 
their fishing spears. Just as he concluded to start again, he found 
himself suddenly bumped into an old lady’s lap. Her push-chair 
had come upon him from the rear. The old lady screamed, the serv- 
ant who was propelling her gave a warning hiss — In another instant 
Ben found himself apologizing to empty air; the indignant old lady 
was far ahead. 


io6 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

This was a slight mishap compared with one that now threatened 
him. A huge ice-boat, under full sail, came tearing down the canal, 
almost paralyzing Ben with the thought of instant destruction. It 
was close upon him! He saw its gilded prow, heard the schipper 
shout, felt the great boom fairly whizz over his head, was blind, deaf 
and dumb all in an instant, then opened his eyes, to find himself spin- 
ning some yards behind its great, skate-like rudder. It had passed 
within an inch of his shoulder, but he was safe! safe to see England 
again, safe to kiss the dear faces that for an instant had flashed before 
him one by one — father, mother, Robby and Jenny — that great boom 
had dashed their images into his very soul. He knew now how much 
he loved them. Perhaps this knowledge made him face complacently 
the scowls of those on the canal who seemed to feel that a boy in 
danger was necessarily a bad boy needing instant reprimand. 

Lambert chided him roundly. 

“I thought it was all over with you, you careless fellow! Why 
don’t you look where you are going. Not content with sitting on 
all the old ladies’ laps, you must make a Juggernaut of every ice- 
boat that comes along. We shall have to hand you over to the aans- 
preekers yet, if you don’t look out!” 

“Please don’t,” said Ben, with mock humility — then seeing how 
pale Lambert’s lips were, added in a low tone: 

“I do believe I thought more in that one moment, Van Mounen, 
than in all the rest of my past life.” 

There was no reply, and, for awhile, the two boys skated on in 
silence. 

Soon a faint sound of distant bells reached their ears. 

“Hark!” said Ben, “what is that?” 

“The carillons,” replied Lambert. “They are trying the bells in 
the chapel of yonder village. Ah! Ben, you should hear the chimes 
of the ‘New Church’ at Delft; they are superb — nearly five hundred 
sweet-toned bells, and one of the best carilloneurs of Holland to play 
upon them. Hard work, though; they say the fellow often has to 
go to bed from positive exhaustion, after his performances. You 
see, the bells are attached to a kind of key-board, something like they 
have on piano-fortes; there are also a set of pedals for the feet; when 



“Jacob! Jacob, are you hurt?” 




io8 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

a brisk tune is going on, the player looks like a kicking frog fastened 
to his seat with a skewer.” 

“For shame,” said Ben, indignantly. 

Peter had, for the present, exhausted his stock of Haarlem anec- 
dotes, and now, having nothing to do but to skate, he and his three 
companions were hastening to “catch up” with Lambert and Ben. 

“That English lad is fleet enough,” said Peter, “if he were a born 
Hollander he could do no better. Generally these John Bulls make 
but a sorry figure on skates — Hollo! Here you are. Van Mounen, 
why we hardly hoped for the honor of meeting you again. Who 
were you flying from in such haste?” 

“Snails,’’ retorted Lambert. “What kept you?” 

“We have been talking — and, beside, we halted once to give Poot 
a chance to rest.” 

“He begins to look rather worn out,” said Lambert in a low voice. 

Just then a beautiful ice-boat with reefed sail, and flying streamers, 
swept leisurely by. Its deck was filled with children muffled up to 
their chins. Looking at them from the ice you could see only smiling 
little faces imbedded in bright-colored, woolen wrappings. They 
were singing a chorus in honor of Saint Nicholas. The music, start- 
ing in the discord of a hundred childish voices, floated, as it rose, into 
exquisite harmony: 


Friend of sailors, and of children! 

Double claim have we, 

As in youthful joy we’re sailing, 

O’er a frozen sea! 

Nicholas! Saint Nicholas! 
Let us sing to thee. 

While through Wintry air we’re rushing. 

As our voices blend, 

Are you near us ? Do you hear us, 

Nicholas, our friend? 

Nicholas! Saint Nicholas! 
Love can never end. 

Sunny sparkles, bright before us, 

Chase away the cold ! 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 109 

Hearts where sunny thoughts are welcome, 

Never can grow old — 

Nicholas! Saint Nicholas! — 

Never can grow old ! 

Pretty gift and loving lesson, 

Festival and glee. 

Bid us thank thee as we’re sailing 
O’er the frozen sea — 

Nicholas! Saint Nicholas! 

So we sing to thee ! 

The last note died away in the distance. Our boys, who in their 
vain efforts to keep up with the boat, had felt that they were skating 
backward, turned to look at one another. 

“How beautiful that was!” exclaimed Van Mounen. 

“Just like a dream!” said Ludwig. 

Jacob drew close to Ben, giving his usual approving nod, as he 
spoke : 

“Dat ish goot. Dat ish te pest vay — I shay petter to take to Leyden 
mit a poat!” 

“Take a boat!” exclaimed Ben, in dismay — “why, man, our plan 
was to skate, not to be carried like little children — ” 

“Tuyfelsl” retorted Jacob, “dat ish no little — no papies — to go for 
poat!” 

The boys laughed, but exchanged uneasy glances. It would be 
great fun to jump on an ice-boat, if they had a chance ; but to abandon 
so shamefully their grand undertaking — ^Who could think of such a 
thing? 

An animated discussion arose at once. 

Captain Peter brought his party to a halt. 

“Boys,” said he, “it strikes me that we should consult Jacob’s 
wishes in this matter. He started the excursion, you know.” 

“Pooh!” sneered Carl, throwing a contemptuous glance at Jacob, 
“who’s tired? We can rest all night at Leyden.” 

Ludwig and Lambert looked anxious and disappointed. It was 
no slight thing to lose the credit of having skated all the way from 
Broek to the Hague, and back again; but both agreed that Jacob 
should decide the question. 


no HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

Good-natured, tired Jacobi He read the popular sentiment at 
a glance. 

“Ohl no,” he said, in Dutch. “I was joking. We will skate, of 
course.” 

The boys gave a delighted shout, and started on again with renewed 
vigor — 

All but Jacob. He tried his best not to seem fatigued, and, by 
not saying a word, saved his breath and energy for the great business 
of skating. But in vain. Before long, the stout body grew heavier 
and heavier — the tottering limbs weaker and weaker. Worse than 
all, the blood, anxious to get far as possible from the ice, mounted 
to the puffy, good-natured cheeks, and made the roots of his thin, 
yellow hair glow into a fiery red. 

This kind of work is apt to summon Vertigo, of whom good Hans 
Andersen writes — the same who hurls daring young hunters from 
the mountains, or spins them from the sharpest heights of the glaciers, 
or catches them as they tread the stepping stones of the mountain tor- 
rent. 

Vertigo came, unseen, to Jacob. After tormenting him awhile, 
with one touch sending a chill from head to foot, with the next, 
scorching every vein with fever, she made the canal rock and tremble 
beneath him, the white sails bow and spin as they passed, then cast 
him heavily upon the ice. 

“Hallo!” cried Van Mounen. “There goes Foot!” 

Ben sprang hastily forward. 

“Jacob! Jacob, are you hurt?” 

Peter and Carl were lifting him. The face was white enough now. 
It seemed like a dead face — even the good-natured look was gone. 

A crowd collected. Peter unbuttoned the poor boy’s jacket, 
loosened his red tippet, and blew between the parted lips. 

“Stand off, good people!” he cried, “give him air!” 

“Lay him down,” called out a woman from the crowd. 

“Stand him upon his feet,” shouted another. 

“Give him wine,” growled a stout fellow who was driving a loaded 
sled. 

“Yes! yes, give him wine!” echoed everybody. 

Ludwig and Lambert shouted in concert: 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES in 

“Wine! wine! Who has wine!” 

A sleepy-eyed Dutchman began to fumble mysteriously under the 
heaviest of blue jackets, saying as he did so: 

“Not so much noise, young masters, not so much noise! The boy 
was a fool to faint off like a girl.” 

“Wine, quick!” cried Peter who, with Ben’s help, was rubbing 
Jacob from head to foot. 

Ludwig stretched forth his hand imploringly toward the Dutch- 
man, who with an air of great importance was still fumbling beneath 
the jacket. 

hurry! He will die! Has anyone else any wine?” 

“He is dead!” said an awful voice from among the bystanders. 

This startled the Dutchman. 

“Have a care!” he said, reluctantly drawing forth a small blue 
flask, “this is schnaps. A little is enough.” 

A little was enough. The paleness gave way to a faint flush. 
Jacob opened his eyes, and — half bewildered, half ashamed, — feebly 
tried to free himself from those who were supporting him. 

There was no alternative, now, for our party but to have their ex- 
hausted comrade carried, in some way, to Leyden. As for expecting 
him to skate any more that day, the thing was impossible. In truth, 
by this time each boy began to entertain secret yearnings towards ice- 
boats, and to avow a Spartan resolve not to desert J acob. Fortunately 
a gentle, steady breeze was setting southward. If some accommo- 
dating schipper ^ would but come along, matters would not be quite 
so bad after all. 

Peter hailed the first sail that appeared; the men in the stern would 
not even look at him. Three drays on runners came along, but they 
were already loaded to the utmost. Then an ice-boat, a beautiful, 
tempting little one, whizzed past like an arrow. The boys had just 
time to stare eagerly at it when it was gone. In despair, they re- 
solved to prop up Jacob with their strong arms, as well as they could, 
and take him to the nearest village. 

At that moment a very shabby ice-boat came in sight. With but 
little hope of success, Peter hailed it, at the same time taking off his 
hat and flourishing it in the air. 

1 Skipper. Master of a small trading vessel, — a pleasure-boat or ice-boat. 


112 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

The sail was lowered, then came the scraping sound of the brake, 
and a pleasant voice called out from the deck: 

“What now?” 

“Will you take us on?” cried Peter, hurrying with his companions 
as fast as he could, for the boat was “bringing to” some distance ahead, 
“will you take us on?” 

“We’ll pay for the ride!” shouted Carl. 

The man on board scarcely noticed him except to mutter something 
about its not being a trekschuit. Still looking toward Peter he asked : 

“How many?” 

“Six.” 

“Well, it’s Nicholas’ day — up with you! Young gentleman sick?” 
(nodding towards Jacob). 

“Yes — broken down — skated all the way from Broek,” answered 
Peter — “Do you go to Leyden?” 

“That’s as the wind says — It’s blowing that way now — Scramble 
up!” 

Poor Jacob! if that willing Mrs. Poot had only appeared just 
then, her services would have been invaluable. It was as much as 
the boys could do to hoist him into the boat. All were in at last. 
The schipper, puffing away at his pipe, let out the sail, lifted the 
brake, and sat in the stern with folded arms. 

“Whew! How fast we go!” cried Ben, “this is something like! 
Feel better, Jacob?” 

“Much petter I tanks you.” 

“Oh, you’ll be as good as new in ten minutes. This makes a fel- 
low feel like a bird.” 

Jacob nodded, and blinked his eyes. 

“Don’t go to sleep, Jacob; it’s too cold. You might never wake 
up you know. Persons often freeze to death in that way.” 

“I no sleep,” said Jacob confidently — and in two minutes he was 
snoring. 

Carl and Ludwig laughed. 

“We must wake him!” cried Ben, “it is dangerous I tell you, — 
Jacob! Ja-a-c — ” 

Captain Peter interfered, for three of the boys were helping Ben 
for the fun of the thing. 












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HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 113 

“Nonsense! don’t shake him! Let him alone, boys. One never 
snores like that when one’s freezing. Cover him up with something. 
Here, this cloak will do; hey, schipper?” and he looked toward the 
stern for permission to use it. 

The man nodded. 

“There,” said Peter, tenderly adjusting the garment, “let him 
sleep. He will be frisky as a lamb when he wakes. How far are 
we from Leyden, schipper?” 

“Not more’n a couple of pipes,” replied a voice, rising from 
smoke like the genii in fairy tales (puff! puff!), “likely not more’n 
one an’ a half (puff! puff!) if this wind holds!” (puff! puff! puff!). 

“What is the man saying, Lambert?” asked Ben, who was holding 
his mittened hands against his cheeks to ward off the cutting air. 

“He says we’re about two pipes from Leyden. Half the boors 
here on the canal measure distances by the time it takes them to finish 
a pipe.” 

“How ridiculous.” 

“See here, Benjamin Dobbs,” retorted Lambert, growing unac- 
countably indignant at Ben’s quiet smile; “see here, you’ve a way 
of calling every other thing you see on this side of the German ocean, 
‘ridiculous.’ It may suit you this word ; but it don’t suit me. When 
you want anything ridiculous just remember your English custom 
of making the Lord Mayor of London, at his installation, count the 
nails in a horseshoe to prove his learning/* 

“Who told you we had any such custom as that?” cried Ben, look- 
ing grave in an instant. 

“Why I know it, no use of anyone telling me. It’s in all the 
books — and it’s true. It strikes me,” continued Lambert, laughing 
in spite of himself, “that you have been kept in happy ignorance of 
a good many ridiculous things on your side of the map.” 

“Humph!” exclaimed Ben, trying not to smile, “I’ll inquire into 
that Lord Mayor business when I get home. There must be some 
mistake. B-r-r-0000! How fast we’re going. This is glorious!” 

It was a grand sail, or ride, I scarcely know which to call it; per- 
haps “fly” would be the best word; for the boys felt very much as 
Sinbad did when, tied to the roc’s leg, he darted through the clouds; 
or as Bellerophon felt when he shot through the air on the back of 


114 HANS BRINKER; GR THE SILVER SKATES 

his winged horse Pegasus. Sailing, riding, or flying, whichever it 
was, everything was rushing past, backward — and, before they had 
time to draw a long breath, Leyden itself, with its high peaked-roofs, 
flew half-w'ay to meet them. 

When the city came in sight it was high time to waken the sleeper. 
That feat accomplished, Peter’s prophecy came to pass. Master 
Jacob was quite restored and in excellent spirits. 

The schipper made a feeble remonstrance when Peter, with hearty 
thanks, endeavored to slip some silver pieces into his tough, brown 
palm. 

“Ye see, young master,” said he, drawing away his hand, “the 
regular line o’ trade’s one thing, and a favor’s another.” 

“I know it,” said Peter, “but those boys and girls of yours will 
want sweets when you get home. Buy them some in the name of 
Saint Nicholas.” 

The man grinned. “Aye, true enough, I’ve young ’uns in plenty, 
a clean boat-load of them. You are a sharp young master at guess- 
ing.” 

This time, the knotty hand hitched forward again, quite carelessly, 
it seemed, but its palm was upward. Peter hastily dropped in the 
money and moved away. 

The sail soon came tumbling down. Scrape, scrape went the 
brake, scattering an ice shower round the boat. 

“Good-by, schipper!” shouted the boys, seizing their skates and 
leaping from the deck one by one, “many thanks to you!” 

“Good-by! good-b — Hold! here! stop! I want my coat.” 

Ben was carefully assisting his cousin over the side of the boat. 

“What is the man shouting about. Oh, I know, you have his 
wrapper round your shoulders!” 

“Dat ish true,” answered Jacob, half jumping, half tumbling down 
upon the frame work, “dat ish vot make him sho heavy.” 

“Made you so heavy, you mean, Poot?” 

“Ya, made you so heavy — dat ish true,” said Jacob innocently, as 
he worked himself free from the big wrapper, “dere, now you hands 
it mit him, straits way and tells him I vos much tanks for dat.” 

“Ho! for an inn!” cried Peter, as they stepped into the city. “Be 
brisk, my fine fellows !” 


Mynheer. Kleef 

AND HIS 



Bill Of Fare 


ChapterX 


T he boys soon found an unpretending establishment near 
over the door. This was the ROODE Leeuw or “Red Lion,” 
the Breedstraat (Broad Street) with a funnily painted lion 
kept by one Huygens Kleef, a stout Dutchman with short legs and a 
very long pipe. 

By this time they were in a ravenous condition. The tiffin, taken 
at Haarlem, had served only to give them an appetite, and this had 
been heightened by their exercise, and swift sail upon the canal. 

“Come, mine host! give us what you can I” cried Peter rather 
pompously. 

“I can give you anything — everything,” answered Mynheer 
Kleef, performing a difficult bow. 

“Well, give us sausage and pudding.” 

“Ah, mynheer, the sausage is all gone. There is no pudding.” 
“Salmagundi, then, and plenty of it.” 

“That is out also, young master.” 

“Eggs, and be quick.” 

“Winter eggs are very poor eating,” answered the inn-keeper, 
puckering his lips and lifting his eyebrows. 

“No eggs? — well — Caviare.” 

The Dutchman raised his fat hands: 

“Caviare! That is made of gold! Who has caviare to sell?” 
Peter had sometimes eaten it at home ; he knew that it was made 
of the roes of the sturgeon, and certain other large fish, but he had no 
idea of its cost. 


115 


ii6 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

“Well, mine host, what have you?” 

“What have I? Everything. I have rye-bread, sourkrout, po- 
tato-salad and the fattest herring in Leyden.” 

“What do you say, boys?” asked the captain, “will that do?” 

“Yes,” cried the famished youths, “if he’ll only be quick.” 

Mynheer moved off like one walking in his sleep, but soon opened 
his eyes wide at the miraculous manner in which his herring were 
made to disappear. Next came, or rather went, potato-salad, rye- 
bread and coffee — then Utrecht water flavored with orange, and, 
finally slices of dry ginger-bread. This last delicacy was not on the 
regular bill of fare; but Mynheer Kleef, driven to extremes, sol- 
emnly produced it from his own private stores, and gave only a 
placid blink when his voracious young travelers started up, declar- 
ing they had eaten enough. 

“I should think sol” he exclaimed internally, but his smooth face 
gave no sign. 

Softly rubbing his hands, he asked: 

“Will your worships have beds?” 

“Will your worships have beds?” mocked Carl — “what do you 
mean? Do we look sleepy?” 

“Not at all, master; but I would cause them to be warmed and 
aired. None sleep under damp sheets at the ‘Red Lion.’ ” 

“Ah, I understand. Shall we come back here to sleep. Cap- 
tain?” 

Peter was accustomed to finer lodgings ; but this was a frolic. 

“Why not?” he replied, “we can fare excellently here.” 

“Your worship speaks only the truth,” said mynheer with great 
deference. 

“How fine to be called ‘your worship,’ ” laughed Ludwig aside to 
Lambert, while Peter replied: 

“Well, mine host, you may get the rooms ready by nine.” 

“I have one beautiful chamber, with three beds, that will hold all 
of your worships,” said Mynheer Kleef coaxingly. 

“That will do.” 

“Whew!” whistled Carl when they reached the street. 

Ludwig started. “What now?” 

“Nothing— only Mynheer Kleef of the ‘Red Lion’ little thinks 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 117 

how we shall make things spin in that same room to-night — We’ll 
set the bolsters flying!” 

“Order!” cried the captain. “Now, boys, I must seek this great 
Doctor Boekman before I sleep. If he is in Leyden it will be no 
great task to find him, for he always puts up at the ‘Golden Eagle’ 
when he comes here. I wonder that you did not all go to bed at 
once — Still, as you are awake, what say you to walking with Ben up 
by the Museum or the Stadhuis?” 

“Agreed,” said Ludwig and Lambert; but Jacob preferred to go 
with Peter. In vain Ben tried to persuade him to remain at the 
inn and rest. He declared that he never felt “petter,” and wished 
of all things to take a look at the city, for it was his first “stop mit 
Leyden.” 

“Oh, it will not harm him,” said Lambert. “How long the day 
has been — and what glorious sport we have had. It hardly seems 
possible that we left Broek only this morning.” 

Jacob yawned. 

“I have enjoyed it well,” he said, “but it seems to me at least a 
week since we started.” 

Carl laughed, and muttered something about “twenty naps — ” 

“Here we are at the corner; remember, we all meet at the ‘Red 
Lion’ at eight,” said the captain, as he and Jacob walked away. 

The boys were glad to find a blazing fire awaiting them upon 
their return to the “Red Lion.” Carl and his party were there 
first. Soon afterward Peter and Jacob came in. They had inquired 
in vain concerning Dr. Boekman. All they could ascertain was that 
he had been seen in Haarlem that morning. 

“As for his being in Leyden,” the landlord of the “Golden Eagle” 
had said to Peter, “the thing is impossible. He always lodges here 
when in town. By this time there would be a crowd at my door 
waiting to consult him — Bah! people make such fools of them- 
selves !” 

“He is called a great surgeon,” said Peter. 

“Yes, the greatest in Holland. But what of that? What of be- 
ing the greatest pill-choker and knife-slasher in the world? The 
man is a bear. Only last month on this very spot, he called me a 
pig, before three customers.” 


ii8 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

“No!” exclaimed Peter, trying to look surprised and indignant. 

“Yes, master — A PIG,” repeated the landlord, puffing at his pipe 
with an injured air. “Bahl if he did not pay fine prices and bring 
customers to my house I would sooner see him in the Vleit canal 
than give him lodgment.” 

Perhaps mine host felt that he was speaking too openly to a stran- 
ger, or it may be he saw a smile lurking in Peter’s face, for he added 
sharply: 

“Come, now, what more do you wish? Supper? Beds?” 

“No, mynheer, I am but searching for Dr. Boekman.” 

“Go find him. He is not in Leyden.” 

Peter was not to be put off so easily. After receiving a few more 
rough words, he succeeded in obtaining permission to leave a note 
for the famous surgeon, or rather, he bought from his amiable land- 
lord the privilege of writing it there, and a promise that it should 
be promptly delivered when Doctor Boekman arrived. This ac- 
complished, Peter and Jacob returned to the “Red Lion.” 

This inn had once been a fine house, the home of a rich burgher; 
but, having grown old and shabby, it had passed through many 
hands, until finally it had fallen into the possession of Mynheer 
Kleef. He was fond of saying as he looked up at its dingy, broken 
walls — “mend it, and paint it, and there’s not a prettier house in 
Leyden.” It stood six stories high from the street. The first three 
were of equal breadth but of various heights, the last three were 
in the great, high roof, and grew smaller and smaller like a set of 
double steps until the top one was lost in a point. The roof was 
built of short, shining tiles, and the windows, with their little panes, 
seemed to be scattered irregularly over the face of the building, 
without the slightest attention to outward effect. But the public 
room on the ground floor was the landlord’s joy and pride. He 
never said “mend it, and paint it,” there, for everything was in the 
highest condition of Dutch neatness and order. If you will but 
open your mind’s eye, you may look into the apartment. 

Imagine a large, bare room, with a floor that seemed to be made 
of squares cut out of glazed earthen pie-dishes, first a yellow piece, 
then a red, until the whole looked like a vast checkerboard. Fancy 
a dozen high-backed wooden chairs standing around; then a great 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 119 

hollow chimney place all aglow with its blazing fire, reflected a 
hundred times in the polished steel fire-dogs; a tiled hearth, tiled 
sides, tiled top, with a Dutch sentence upon it; and over all, high 
above one’s head, a narrow mantel-shelf, filled with shining brass 
candle-sticks, pipe-lighters and tinder-boxes. Then see in one end 
of the room, three pine tables; in the other, a closet and a deal 
dresser. The latter is filled with mugs, dishes, pipes, tankards, 
earthen and glass bottles, and is guarded at one end by a brass- 
hooped keg standing upon long legs. Everything dim with tobacco 
smoke, but otherwise clean as soap and sand can make it. Next 
picture two sleepy, shabby-looking men, in wooden shoes, seated 
near the glowing fire-place, hugging their knees and smoking short, 
stumpy pipes; Mynheer Kleef walking softly and heavily about, 
clad in leather knee breeches, felt shoes, and a green jacket wider 
than it is long: — then throw a heap of skates in the corner and put 
six tired, well-dressed boys, in various attitudes, upon the wooden 
chairs, and you will see the coffee-room of the “Red Lion” just as 
it appeared at nine o’clock on the evening of Dec. 6th, 184 — . For 
supper, gingerbread again; slices of Dutch sausage; rye-bread 
sprinkled with anis-seed; pickles; a bottle of Utrecht water, and 
a pot of very mysterious coffee. The boys were ravenous enough 
to take all they could get, and pronounce it excellent. Ben made 
wry faces, but Jacob declared he had never eaten a better meal. 
After they had laughed and talked awhile, and counted their money 
by way of settling a discussion that arose concerning their expenses, 
the captain marched his company off to bed, led on by a greasy 
pioneer-boy who carried skates and a candlestick instead of an axe. 

One of the ill-favored men by the fire had shuffled towards the 
dresser, and was ordering a mug of beer, just as Ludwig, who 
brought up the rear, was stepping from the apartment. 

“I don’t like that fellow’s eye,” he whispered to Carl, “he looks 
like a pirate, or something of that kind.” 

“Looks like a granny!” answered Carl in sleepy disdain. 

Ludwig laughed uneasily. 

“Granny or no granny,” he whispered, “I tell you he looks just 
like one of those men in the ’voetspoelen.’ ” 

“Pooh!” sneered Carl, “I knew it. That picture was too much 


120 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

for you. Look sharp now, and see if yon fellow with the candle 
doesn’t look like the other villian.” 

“No, indeed, his face is as honest as a Gouda cheese. But, I say, 
Carl, that really was a horrid picture.” 

“Humph 1 Why did you stare at it so long for?” 

“I couldn’t help it.” 

By this time the boys had reached the “beautiful room with three 
beds in it.” A dumpy little maiden with long ear-rings met them 
at the doorway, dropt them a courtesy, and passed out. She carried 
a long-handled thing that resembled a frying-pan with a cover. 

“I am glad to see that?” said Van Mounen to Ben. 

“What?” 

“Why, the warming-pan I It’s full of hot ashes, she’s been heat- 
ing our beds.” 

“Oh! a warming-pan, eh! Much obliged to her, I’m sure,” said 
Ben, too sleepy to make any further comment. 

Meantime, Ludwig still talked of the picture that had made such 
a strong impression upon him. He had seen it in a shop window 
during their walk. It was a poorly painted thing, representing two 
men tied back to back, standing on ship-board, surrounded by a 
group of seamen who were preparing to cast them together into the 
sea. This mode of putting prisoners to death was called voetspoelen, 
or feet-washing, and was practiced by the Dutch upon the pirates 
of Dunkirk in 1605; and, again, by the Spaniards upon the Dutch, 
in the horrible massacre that followed the siege of Haarlem. Bad 
as the painting was, the expression upon the pirates’ faces was well 
given. Sullen and despairing as they seemed, they wore such a 
cruel, malignant aspect, that Ludwig had felt a secret satisfaction 
in contemplating their helpless condition. He might have forgotten 
the scene by this time but for that ill-looking man by the fire. Now, 
while he capered about, boy-like, and threw himself with an antic 
into his bed, he inwardly hoped that the “voetspoelen” would not 
haunt his dreams. 

It was a cold, cheerless room, a fire had been newly kindled in the 
burnished stove, and seemed to shiver even while it was trying to 
burn. The windows, with their funny little panes, were bare and 
shiny, and the cold, waxed floor looked like a sheet of yellow ice. 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 121 

Three rush-bottomed chairs stood stiffly against the wall, alternating 
with three narrow wooden bedsteads that made the room look like 
the deserted ward of a hospital. At any other time the boys would 
have found it quite impossible to sleep in pairs, especially in such 
narrow quarters; but to-night they lost all fear of being crowded, 
and longed only to lay their weary bodies upon the feather beds that 
lay lightly upon each cot. Had the boys been 'in Germany instead 
of Holland they might have been covered, also, by a bed of down 
or feathers. This peculiar form of luxury was at that time adopted 
only by wealthy or eccentric Hollanders. 

Ludwig, as we have seen, had not quite lost his friskiness ; but the 
other boys, after one or two feeble attempts at pillow-firing, com- 
posed themselves for the night with the greatest dignity. Nothing 
like fatigue for making boys behave themselves. 

“Good-night, boys!” said Peter’s voice from under the covers. 

“Good-night,” called back everybody but Jacob, who already lay 
snoring beside the captain. 

“I say,” shouted Carl, after a moment, “don’t sneeze, anybody. 
Ludwig’s in a fright!” 

“No such thing,” retorted Ludwig in a smothered voice. Then 
there was a little whispered dispute, which was ended by Carl say- 
ing: 

“For my part, I don’t know what fear is. But you really are a 
timid fellow, Ludwig.” 

Ludwig grunted sleepily, but made no further reply. 


It was the middle of the night. The fire had shivered itself to 
death, and, in place of its gleams, little squares of moonlight lay 
upon the floor, slowly, slowly shifting their way across the room. 
Something else was moving also, but they did not see it. Sleeping 
boys keep but a poor look-out. During the early hours of the night, 
Jacob Foot had been gradually but surely winding himself with 
all the bed covers. He now lay like a monster chrysalis beside the 
half frozen Peter, who, accordingly, was skating with all his might 
over the coldest, bleakest of dreamland ice-bergs. 

Something else, I say, besides the moonlight, was moving across 


122 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

the bare, polished floor — moving not quite so slowly, but quite as 
stealthily. 

Wake up, Ludwig 1 The voetspoelen pirate is growing reall 

No. Ludwig does not waken, but he moans in his sleep. 

Does not Carl hear it — Carl the brave, the fearless? 

No. Carl is dreaming of the race. 

And Jacob? Van Mounen? Ben? 

Not they. They, too, are dreaming of the race; and Katrinka is 
singing through their dreams — laughing, flitting past them; now 
and then a wave from the great organ surges through their midst. 

Still the thing moves, slowly, slowly. 

Peter! Captain Peter, there is danger! 

Peter heard no call ; but, in his dream, he slid a few thousand feet 
from one ice-berg to another, and the shock awoke him. 

Whew! How cold he was! He gave a hopeless, desperate tug 
at the chrysalis. In vain; sheet, blanket and spread were firmly 
wound about Jacob’s inanimate form. Peter looked drowsily to- 
ward the window. 

^‘Clear moonlight,” he thought, “we shall have pleasant weather 
to-morrow. Hallo! what’s that?” 

He saw the moving thing, or rather something black crouching 
upon the floor, for it had halted as Peter stirred. 

He watched in silence. 

Soon it moved again, nearer and nearer. It was a man crawling 
upon hands and feet! 

The captain’s first impulse was to call out; but he took an instant 
to consider matters. 

The creeper had a shining knife in one hand. This was ugly; 
but Peter was naturally self-possessed. When the head turned, 
Peter’s eyes were closed as if in sleep; but at other times nothing 
could be keener, sharper than the captain’s gaze. 

Closer, closer crept the robber. His back was very near Peter 
now. The knife was laid softly upon the floor; one careful arm 
reached forth stealthily to drag the clothes from the chair by the 
captain’s bed — the robbery was commenced. 

Now was Peter’s time! Holding his breath, he sprang up and 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 123 

leaped with all his strength upon the robber’s back, stunning the 
rascal with the force of the blow. To seize the knife was but a sec- 
ond’s work. The robber began to struggle, but Peter sat like a giant 
astride the prostrate form. 

“If you stir,” said the brave boy in as terrible a voice as he could 
command, “stir but one inch, I will plunge this knife into your 
neck. Boysl Boys I wake up I” he shouted, still pressing down the 
black head, and holding the knife at pricking distance, “give us a 
hand! I’ve got him I I’ve got himl” 

The chrysalis rolled over, but made no other sign. 

“Up, boys!” cried Peter, never budging, “Ludwig! Lambert! 
Thunder! Are you all dead?” 

Dead! not they. Van Mounen and Ben were on their feet in an 
instant. 

“Hey! What now?” they shouted. 

“I’ve got a robber here,” said Peter, coolly. “(Lie still, you 
scoundrel, or I’ll slice your head off!) Now, boys, cut out your 
bed cord — plenty of time — he’s a dead man if he stirs.” 

Peter felt that he weighed a thousand pounds. So he did, with 
that knife in his hand. The man growled and swore, but dared not 
move. 

Ludwig was up, by this time. He had a great jackknife, the 
pride of his heart, in his breeches pocket. It could do good service 
now. They bared the bed-stead in a moment. It was laced back- 
ward and forward with a rope. 

“I’ll cut it,” cried Ludwig, sawing away at the knot, “hold him 
tight, Pete!” 

“Never fear!” answered the captain, giving the robber a warning 
prick. 

The boys were soon pulling at the rope like good fellows. It was 
out at last — a long, stout piece. 

“Now, boys,” commanded the captain, “lift up his rascally arms! 
Cross his hands over his back! That’s right — excuse me for being 
in the way — tie them tight!” 

“Yes, and his feet too, the villain!” cried the boys in great excite- 
ment, tying knot after knot with Herculean jerks. 

The prisoner changed his tone. 


124 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

“Oh — oh!” he moaned, “spare a poor sick man — I was but walk- 
ing in my sleep.” 

“Ugh!” grunted Lambert, still tugging away at the rope, “asleep, 
were you? well, we’ll wake you up.” 

The man muttered fierce oaths between his teeth — then cried in a 
piteous voice, “Unbind me, good young masters! I have five little 
children at home. By Saint Bavon I swear to give you each a ten- 
guilder piece if you will but free me!” 

“Ha!’ ha!” laughed Peter. 

“Ha! ha!” laughed the other boys. 

Then came threats^ — threats that made Ludwig fairly shudder, 
though he continued to bind and tie with redoubled energy. 

“Hold up! mynheer house-breaker,” said Van Mounen in a warn- 
ing voice. “That knife is very near your throat. If you make the 
captain nervous, there is no telling what may happen.” 

The robber took the hint, and fell into a sullen silence. 

Just at this moment the chrysalis upon the bed stirred and sat 
erect. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked, without opening his eyes. 

“Matter!” echoed Ludwig, half trembling, half laughing, “get 
up, Jacob. Here’s work for you. Come sit on this fellow’s back 
while we get into our clothes, we’re half perished.” 

“What fellow? Bonder!” 

“Hurrah for Foot!” cried all the boys, as Jacob sliding quickly to 
the floor, bedclothes and all, took in the state of affairs at a glance, 
and sat heavily beside Peter on the robber’s back. 

Oh, didn’t the fellow groan, then! 

“No use in holding him down any longer, boys,” said Peter, ris- 
ing, but bending as he did so to draw a pistol from his man’s belt. 
“You see I’ve been keeping guard over this pretty little weapon 
for the last ten minutes. It’s cocked and the least wriggle might 
have set it off. No danger now. I must dress myself. You and 
I, Lambert, will go for the police. I’d no idea it was so cold.” 

“Where is Carl?” asked one of the boys. 

They looked at one another. Carl certainly was not among them. 

“Oh!” cried Ludwig, frightened at last, “where is he? Perhaps 
he’s had a fight with the robber, and got killed.” 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 125 

‘‘Not a bit of it,” said Peter quietly, as he buttoned his stout jacket. 
“Look under the beds.” 

They did so. Carl was not there. 

Just then they heard a commotion on the stairway. Ben hastened 
to open the door. The landlord almost tumbled in ; he was armed 
with a big blunderbuss. Two or three lodgers followed; then the 
daughter, with an upraised frying-pan in one hand, and a candle in 
the other; and, behind her, looking pale and frightened, the gallant 
Carl I 

“There’s your man, mine host,” said Peter, nodding toward the 
prisoner. 

Mine host raised his blunderbuss, the girl screamed, and Jacob, 
more nimble than usual, rolled quickly from the robber’s back. 

“Don’t fire,” cried Peter, “he is tied, hand and foot. Let’s roll 
him over, and see what he looks like.” 

Carl stepped briskly forward, with a blustering “Yes. We^ll turn 
him over in a way he won’t like. Luckily we’ve caught him!” 

“Ha! ha!” laughed Ludwig, “where were you. Master Carl?” 

“Where was I?” retorted Carl, angrily, “why, I went to give the 
alarm, to be sure!” 

All the boys exchanged glances; but they were too happy and 
elated to say anything ill-natured. Carl certainly was bold enough 
now. He took the lead while three others aided him in turning the 
helpless man. 

While the robber lay, face up, scowling and muttering, Ludwig 
took the candlestick from the girl’s hand. 

“I must have a good look at the beauty,” he said, drawing closer, 
but the words were no sooner spoken than he turned pale and started 
so violently that he almost dropped the candle. 

“The voetspoelen !” he cried, “why, boys, it’s the man who sat 
by the firel” 

“Of course it is,” answered Peter, “we counted our money before 
him like simpletons. But what have we to do with voetspoelen, 
brother Ludwig? A month in jail is punishment enough,” 

The landlord’s daughter had left the room. She now ran in, 
holding up a pair of huge wooden shoes. “See, father,” she cried, 
“here are his great ugly boots. It’s the man that we put in the 


126 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

next room after the young masters went to bed. Ah! it was wrong 
to send the poor young gentlemen up here so far out of sight and 
sound.” 

“The scoundrel 1” hissed the landlord, “he has disgraced my house. 
I go for the police at once!” 

In less than fifteen minutes two drowsy looking officers were in 
the room. After telling Mynheer Kleef that he must appear early 
in the morning with the boys and make his complaint before a mag- 
istrate, they marched off with their prisoner. 

One would think the captain and his band could have slept no 
more that night; but the mooring has not yet been found that can pre- 
vent youth and an easy conscience from drifting down the river of 
dreams. The boys were too much fatigued to let so slight a thing 
as capturing a robber bind them to wakefulness. They were soon 
in bed again, floating away to strange scenes made of familiar things. 
Ludwig and Carl had spread their bedding upon the floor. One 
had already forgotten the voetspoelen, the race — everything; but 
Carl was wide awake. He heard the carillons ringing out their 
solemn nightly music, and the watchman’s noisy clapper putting in 
discord at the quarter-hours ; he saw the moonshine glide away from 
the window, and the red morning light come pouring in, and all the 
while he kept thinking: 

“Pooh! what a goose I have made of myself!” 

Carl Schummel, alone, with none to look or to listen, was not 
quite so grand a fellow as Carl Schummel strutting about in his boots. 



Before 
rHE Court 


Chapter XI 


Y OU may believe the landlord’s daughter bestirred herself to 
prepare a good meal for the boys next morning. Mynheer 
had a Chinese gong that could make more noise than a dozen 
of breakfast bells. Its hideous reveille, clanging through the house 
generally startled the drowsiest lodgers into activity, but the maiden 
would not allow it to be sounded this morning: 

“Let the brave young gentlemen sleep,” she said to the greasy 
kitchen-boy, “they shall be warmly fed when they awaken.” 

It was ten o’clock when Captain Peter and his band came strag- 
gling down one by one. 

“A pretty hour,” said mine host, gruffly. “It is high time we were 
before the court. Fine business this for a respectable inn. You 
will testify truly, young masters, that you found most excellent fare 
and lodgment at the ‘Red Lion’?” 

“Of course we will,” answered Carl, saucily, “and pleasant com- 
pany, too, though they visit at rather unseasonable hours.” 

A stare and a “humph I” was all the answer mynheer made to this, 
but the daughter was more communicative. Shaking her ear-rings 
at Carl she said sharply; 

“Not so very pleasant either, master traveler, if one could judge 
by the way you ran away from it!” 

“Impertinent creature!” hissed Carl under his breath, as he began 
busily to examine his skate-straps. Meanwhile the kitchen-boy, 
listening outside at the crack of the door, doubled himself with 
silent laughter. 


127 


128 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

After breakfast the boys went to the Police Court, accompanied 
by Huygens Kleef and his daughter. Mynheer’s testimony was 
principally to the effect that such a thing as a robber at the “Red 
Lion” had been unheard of until last night; and as for the “Red 
Lion,” it was a most respectable inn, as respectable as any house in 
Leyden. Each boy, in turn, told all he knew of the affair, and 
identified the prisoner in the box as the same man who entered their 
room in the dead of night. Ludwig was surprised to find that the 
robber was a man of ordinary size — especially after he had described 
him, under oath, to the court as a tremendous fellow, with great 
square shoulders, and legs of prodigious weight. Jacob swore that 
he was awakened by the robber kicking and thrashing upon the 
floor; and, immediately afterward, Peter and the rest (feeling sorry 
that they had not explained the matter to their sleepy comrade) 
testified that the man had not moved a muscle from the moment the 
point of the dagger touched his throat, until, bound from head to foot, 
he was rolled over for inspection. The landlord’s daughter made 
one boy blush, and all the court smile, by declaring that, “if it 
hadn’t been for that handsome young gentleman there” (pointing 
to Peter) they “might have all been murdered in their beds; for the 
dreadful man had a great, shining knife most as long as your honor’s 
arm,” and she believed “the handsome young gentleman had strug- 
gled hard enough to get it away from him, but he was too modest, 
bless him! to say so.” 

Finally, after a little questioning, and cross-questioning from the 
public Prosecutor the witnesses were dismissed, and the robber was 
handed over to the consideration of the Criminal Court. 

“The scoundrel 1” said Carl, savagely, when the boys reached the 
street. “He ought to be sent to jail at once. If I had been in your 
place, Peter, I certainly should have killed him outright I” 

“He was fortunate, then, in falling into gentler hands,” was Peter’s 
quiet reply; “it appears he has been arrested before under a charge 
of house-breaking. He did not succeed in robbing this time, but 
he broke the door-fastenings, and that I believe makes a burglary 
in the eye of the law. He was armed with a knife, too, and that 
makes it worse for him, poor fellow!” 



130 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

“Poor fellow I” mimicked Carl, “one would think he was your 
brother!” 

“So he is my brother, and yours, too, Carl Schummel, for that 
matter,” answered Peter, looking into Carl’s eye. “We cannot say 
what we might have become under other circumstances. We have 
been bolstered up from evil, since the hour we were born. A happy 
home and good parents might have made that man a fine fellow in- 
stead of what he is. God grant that the law may cure and not crush 
him!” 

“Amen to that!” said Lambert, heartily, while Ludwig van Holp 
looked at his brother in such a bright, proud way that Jacob Poot, 
who was an only son, wished from his heart that the little form 
buried in the old church at home had lived to grow up beside him. 

“Humph!” said Carl, “it’s very well to be saintly and forgiving, 
and all that sort of thing, but I’m naturally hard. All these fine 
ideas seem to rattle off of me like hail-stones — and it’s nobody’s busi- 
ness, either, if they do.” 

Peter recognized a touch of good feeling in this clumsy conces- 
sion; holding out his hand, he said in a frank, hearty tone. 

“Come, lad, shake hands, and let us be good friends, even if we 
don’t exactly agree on all questions.” 

“We do agree better than you think,” sulked Carl, as he returned 
Peter’s grasp. 

“All right,” responded Peter briskly, “now, Van Mounen, we 
await Benjamin’s wishes. Where would he like to go?” 

“To the Egyptian Museum,” answered Lambert, after holding a 
brief consultation with Ben. 

“That is on the Breedestraat. To the Museum let it be. Come, 
boys !” 

“This open square before us,” said Lambert, as he and Ben walked 
on together, “is pretty in Summer, with its shady trees. They call 
it the Ruine. Years ago it was covered with houses, and the Rapen- 
burg canal, here, ran through the street. Well, one day a barge 
loaded with forty thousand pounds of gunpowder, bound for Delft, 
was lying alongside, and the bargemen took a notion to cook their din- 
ner on the deck; and before anyone knew it, sir, the whole thing 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 131 

blew up, killing lots of persons and scattering about three hundred 
houses to the winds.” 

“What!” exclaimed Ben, “did the explosion destroy three hun- 
dred houses!” 

“Yes, sir, my father was in Leyden at the time. He says it was 
terrible. The explosion occurred just at noon, and was like a vol- 
cano. All this part of the town was on fire in an instant, buildings 
tumbling down, and men, women and children groaning under the 
ruins — The King himself came to the city and acted nobly, father 
says, staying out in the streets all night, encouraging the survivors 
in their efforts to arrest the fire, and rescue as many as possible from 
under the heaps of stone and rubbish. Through his means a collec- 
tion for the benefit of the sufferers was raised throughout the king- 
dom, besides a hundred thousand guilders paid out of the treasury. 
Father was only nineteen years old then; it was in 1807 I believe, 
but he remembers it perfectly. A friend of his. Professor Luzac, was 
among the killed. They have a tablet erected to his memory, in 
Saint Peter’s Church, further on — the queerest thing you ever saw 
— ^with an image of the professor carved upon it representing him 
just as he looked when he was found after the explosion.” 

“What a strange idea! Isn’t Boerhaave’s monument in Saint 
Peter’s also?” 

“I cannot remember. Perhaps Peter knows.” 

The captain delighted Ben by saying that the monument was there 
and that he thought they might be able to see it during the day. 

“Lambert,” continued Peter, “ask Ben if he saw Van der Werf’s 
portrait at the Town Hall last night?” 

“No,” said Lambert, “I can answer for him. It was too late to 
go in. I say, boys, it is really wonderful how much Ben knows. 
Why, he has told me a volume of Dutch history already. I’ll wager 
he has the siege of Leyden at his tongue’s end.” 

“His tongue must burn then,” interposed Ludwig, “for if Bilder- 
dyk’s account is true it was a pretty hot affair.” 

Ben was looking at them with an inquiring smile. 

“We are speaking of the siege of Leyden,” explained Lambert. 

“Oh, yes,” said Ben, eagerly, “I had forgotten all about it. This 


132 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

was the very place — Let’s give old Van der Werf three cheers — 
Hur— ” 

Van Mounen uttered a hasty “hush!” and explained that, patriotic 
as the Dutch were, the police would soon have something to say if 
a party of boys cheered in the street at mid-day. 

“What! not cheer Van der Werf?” cried Ben, indignantly. 
“One of the greatest chaps in history? Only think! Didn’t he hold 
out against those murderous Spaniards for months and months! 
There was the town, surrounded on all sides by the enemy; great 
black forts sending fire and death into the very heart of the city — 
but no surrender! Every man a hero — women, and children, too, 
brave and fierce as lions — provisions giving out, the very grass from 
between the paving stones gone^ — till people were glad to eat horses 
and cats and dogs and rats. Then came the Plague — hundreds dy- 
ing in the streets — but no surrender! Then when they could bear 
no more — when the people, brave as they were, crowded about Van 
der Werf in the public square begging him to give up ; what did the 
noble old burgomaster say: — ‘I have sworn to defend this city, and 
with God’s help, I mean to do it! If my body can satisfy your 
hunger, take it, and divide it among you — but expect no surrender 
so long as I am alive’ — Hurrah! hur — ” 

Ben was getting uproarious; Lambert playfully clapped his hand 
over his friend’s mouth. The result was one of those quick india- 
rubber scuffles fearful to behold, but delightful to human nature in 
its polliwog state. 

“Vat wash te matter, Ben?” asked Jacob, hurrying forward. 

“Oh! nothing at all,” panted Ben, “except that Van Mounen was 
afraid of starting an English riot, in this orderly town. He stopped 
my cheering for old Van der — ” 

“Ya! ya— it ish no goot to sheer — to make te noise for dat — You 
vill shee old Van der Does’ likeness mit te Stadhuis.” 

“See old Van der Does? I thought it was Van der Werf’s pic- 
ture they had there — ” 

“Ya,” responded Jacob, “Van der Werf — veil, vot of it! both ish 
just ash goot — ” 

“Yes, Van der Does was a noble old Dutchman, but he was not 
Van der Werf. I know he defended the city like a brick, and — ” 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 133 

“Now vot for you shay dat, Penchamin? He no defend te citty 
mit breek, he fight like goot soltyer mit his guns. You like make te 
fun mit effrysinks Tutch.” 

“No! no! no! I said he defended the city like a brick. That is 
very high praise, I would have you understand. We English call 
even the Duke of Wellington a brick.” 

Jacob looked puzzled; but his indignation was already on the ebb: 

“Veil it ish no matter. I no tink, before, soltyer mean breek, but 
it ish no matter.” 

Ben laughed good-naturedly, and seeing that his cousin was tired 
of talking in English, he turned to his friend of the two languages — 

“Van Mounen ! they say the very carrier-pigeons that brought news 
of relief to the besieged city, are somewhere here in Leyden. I 
really should like to see them. Just think of it! At the very height 
of the trouble if the wind didn’t turn, and blow in the waters, and 
drown hundreds of the Spaniards, and enable the Dutch boats to 
sail in right over the land with men and provisions to the very gates 
of the city. The pigeons, you know, did great service, in bearing 
letters to and fro. I have read somewhere that they were rever- 
ently cared for from that day, and, when they died, they were stuffed, 
and placed for safe keeping in the Town Hall. We must be sure to 
have a look at them.” 

Van Mounen laughed. “On that principle, Ben, I suppose when 
you go to Rome you’ll expect to see the identical goose who saved 
the Capitol. But it will be easy enough to see the pigeons. They 
are in the same building with Van der Werf’s portrait. Which was 
the greatest defense, Ben, the siege of Leyden or the siege of Haar- 
lem?” 

“Well,” replied Ben, thoughtfully; “Van der Werf is one of my 
heroes ; we all have our historical pets, you know, but I really think 
the siege of Haarlem brought out a braver, more heroic resistance 
even, than the Leyden one ; besides they set the Leyden sufferers an 
example of courage and fortitude, for their turn came first.” 

“I don’t know much about the Haarlem siege,” said Lambert, 
“except that it was in 1573. Who beat?” 

“The Spaniards,” said Ben. “The Dutch had stood out for 
months. Not a man would yield nor a woman either for that mat- 


134 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

ter. They shoulder arms and fought gallantly beside their hus- 
bands and fathers. Three hundred of them did duty under Kanau 
Hesselaer, a great woman, and brave as Joan of Arc. All this time 
the city was surrounded by the Spaniards under Frederic of Toledo, 
son of that beauty, the Duke of Alva. Cut off from all possible 
help from without, there seemed to be no hope for the inhabitants, 
but they shouted defiance over the city walls. They even threw 
bread into the enemy’s camps to show that they were not afraid of 
starvation. Up to the last they held out bravely, waiting for the 
help that never could come — growing bolder and bolder until their 
provisions were exhausted. Then it was terrible. In time hun- 
dreds of famished creatures fell dead in the streets, and the living 
had scarcely strength to bury them. At last, they made the des- 
perate resolution, that rather than perish by lingering torture, the 
strongest would form in a square, placing the weakest in the center, 
and rush in a body to their death, with the faint chance of being able 
to fight their way through the enemy. The Spaniards received a 
hint of this, and believing there was nothing the Dutch would not 
dare to do, they concluded to offer terms.” 

“High time I should think.” 

“Yes, with falsehood and treachery they soon obtained an en- 
trance into the city, promising protection and forgiveness to all ex- 
cept those whom the citizens themselves would acknowledge as de- 
serving of death.” 

“You don’t say so!” said Lambert, quite interested, “that ended 
the business I suppose.” 

“Not a bit of it,” returned Ben, “for the Duke of Alva had al- 
ready given his son orders to show mercy to none.” 

“Ah! there was where the great Haarlem massacre came in. I 
remember now. You can’t wonder that the Hollanders dislike Spain 
when you read of the way they were butchered by Alva and his 
hosts, though I admit that our side sometimes retaliated terribly. 
But as I have told you before, I have a very indistinct idea of his- 
torical matters. Everything is utter confusion — from the Flood to 
the battle of Waterloo. One thing is plain, however, the Duke of 
Alva was about the worst specimen of a man that ever lived.” 

“That gives only a faint idea of him,” said Ben, “but I hate to 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 135 

think of such a wretch. What if he had brains, and military skill, 
and all that sort of thing! Give me such men as Van der Werf, and 
— what now?” 

“Why,” said Van Mounen, who was looking up and down the 
street, in a bewildered way. “We’ve walked right past the museum, 
and I don’t see the boys. Let us go back.” 

The boys met at the museum, and were soon engaged in examin- 
ing its extensive collection of curiosities, receiving a new insight into 
Egyptian life ancient and modern. Ben and Lambert had often 
visited the British Museum, but that did not prevent them from 
being surprised at the richness of the Leyden collection. There 
were household utensils, wearing apparel, weapons, musical instru- 
ments, sarcophagi, and mummies of men, women, and cats, ibexes 
and other creatures. They saw a massive gold armlet that had been 
worn by an Egyptian king at a time when some of these same mum- 
mies, perhaps, were nimbly treading the streets of Thebes ; and jew- 
els and trinkets such as Pharaoh’s daughter wore, and the children 
of Israel borrowed when they departed out of Egypt. 

There were other interesting relics, from Rome and Greece, and 
some curious Roman pottery which had been discovered in digging 
near the Hague — relics of the days when the countrymen of Julius 
Caesar had settled there. Where have they not settled? I for one, 
would hardly be astonished if relics of the ancient Romans should 
some day be found deep under the grass growing round the Bunker- 
Hill monument. 

When the boys left this Museum, they went to another and saw 
a wonderful collection of fossil animals, skeletons, birds, minerals, 
precious stones and other natural specimens, but as they were not 
learned men, they could only walk about and stare, enjoy the little 
knowledge of natural history they possessed, and wish with all their 
hearts they had acquired more. Even the skeleton of the mouse 
puzzled Jacob. What wonder? He was not used to seeing the cat- 
fearing little creatures running about in their bones — and how could 
he ever have imagined their necks to be so queer? 

Besides the Museum of Natural History, there was Saint Peter’s 
Church to be visited, containing Professor Luzac’s Memorial, and 
Boerhaave’s Monument of white and black marble, with its urn and 


136 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

carved symbols of the four ages of life, and its medallion of Boer- 
haave, adorned with his favorite motto “Simplex sigillum veri.” 
They also obtained admittance to a tea-garden, which in summer 
was a favorite resort of the citizens, and passing naked oaks and 
fruit-trees, ascended a high mound which stood in the center. This 
was the site of a round tower now in ruins, said by some to have been 
built by Hengist the Anglo Saxon king, and by others to have been 
the castle of one of the ancient counts of Holland. 

As the boys walked about on the top of its stone wall, they could 
get but a poor view of the surrounding city. The tower stood higher 
when, more than two centuries ago, the inhabitants of beleaguered 
Leyden, shouted to the watcher on its top, their wild, despairing 
cries — “Is there any help? Are the waters rising? What do you 
see?” 

And for months he could only answer — “No help. I see around 
us nothing but the enemy.” 

Ben pushed these thoughts away; and resolutely looking down 
into the bare tea-garden, filled it in imagination with gay Summer 
groups. He tried to forget old battle-clouds, and picture only cur- 
ling wreaths of tobacco-smoke, rising from among men, women and 
children enjoying their tea and coffee in the open air. But a tragedy 
Came in spite of him. 

Foot was bending over the edge of the high wall. It would be 
just like him to grow dizzy and tumble off. Ben turned impa- 
tiently away. If the fellow with his weak head knew no better than 
to be venturesome, why, let him tumble. Horror I what meant that 
heavy, crashing sound? 

Ben could not stir. He could only gasp. 

“Jacobi” 

“Jacobi” cried another startled voice and another. Ready to 
faint, Ben managed to turn his head. He saw a crowd of boys on 
the edge of the wall opposite — but Jacob was not there 1 

“Good Heaven 1” he cried, springing forward, “where is my 
cousin?” 

The crowd parted. It was only four boys, after all. There sat 
Jacob in their midst, holding his sides and laughing heartily. 

“Did I frighten you all?” he said in his native Dutch, “well I 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 137 

will tell you how it was. There was a big stone lying on the wall 
and I put my — my foot out just to push it a little, you see — and the 
first thing I knew, down went the stone all the way to the bottom, 
and left me sitting here on top with both my feet in the air. If I 
had not thrown myself back at that moment, I certainly should have 
rolled over after the stone. Well, it is no matter. Help me up, 
boys.” 

“You are hurt, Jacob!” said Ben, seeing a shade of seriousness 
pass over his cousin’s face as they lifted him to his feet. 

Jacob tried to laugh again. “Oh, no — I feels little hurt ven I 
stant up, but it ish no matter.” 

The monument to Van der Werf in the Hooglandsche Kerk was 
not accessible that day; but the boys spent a few pleasant moments 
in the Stadhuis or Town Hall, a long irregular structure somewhat 
in the Gothic style, uncouth in architecture, but picturesque from 
age. Its little steeple, tuneful with bells, seemed to have been bor- 
rowed from some other building and hastily clapped on as a finish- 
ing touch. 

Ascending the grand staircase the boys soon found themselves in 
rather a gloomy apartment, containing the master-piece of Lucas van 
Leyden, or Hugens, a Dutch artist, born three hundred and seventy 
years ago, who painted well when he was ten years of age and be- 
came distinguished in art when only fifteen. This picture, called 
the “Last Judgment,” considering the remote age in which it was 
painted, is truly a remarkable production. The boys, however, were 
less interested in tracing out the merits of the work, than they were 
in the fact of its being a triptych — that is, painted on three divisions, 
the two outer ones swung on hinges so as to close, when required, 
over the main portion. 

The historical pictures by Harel de Moor and other famous Dutch 
artists interested them for awhile, and Ben had to be almost pulled 
away from the dingy old portrait of Van der Werf. 

The Town Hall, as well as the Egyptian Museum, is on the Breed- 
straat, the longest and finest street in Leyden. It has no canal run- 
ning through it, and the houses, painted in every variety of color, 
have a picturesque effect as they stand with their gable ends to the 


138 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

Street; some are very tall, with half of their height in their step-like 
roofs ; others crouch before the public edifices and churches. Being 
clean, spacious, well-shaded and adorned with many elegant man- 
sions, it compares favorably with the finer portions of Amsterdam. 
It is kept scrupulously neat; many of the gutters are covered with 
boards that open like trap-doors; and it is supplied with pumps sur- 
mounted with shining brass ornaments kept scoured and bright at 
the public cost. The city is intersected by numerous water-roads 
formed by the river Rhine, there grown sluggish, fatigued by its 
long travel; but more than one hundred and fifty stone bridges re- 
unite the dissevered streets. The same world-renowned river, de- 
graded from the beautiful, free-flowing Rhine, serves as a moat 
around the rampart that surrounds Leyden, and is crossed by draw- 
bridges at the imposing gateways that give access to the city. Fine 
broad promenades, shaded by noble trees, border the canals, and 
add to the retired appearance of the houses behind, heightening the 
effect of scholastic seclusion that seems to pervade the place. 

Ben as he scanned the buildings on the Rapenburg canal, was 
somewhat disappointed in the appearance of the great University of 
Leyden. But when he recalled its history — how, attended with all 
the pomp of a grand civic display, it had been founded by the Prince 
of Orange, as a tribute to the citizens for the bravery displayed dur- 
ing the siege ; when he remembered the great men in religion, learn- 
ing and science who had once studied there, and thought of the 
hundreds of students now sharing the benefits of its classes and its 
valuable scientific museums — he was quite willing to forego archi- 
tectural beauty, though he could not help feeling that no amount of 
it could have been misplaced on such an institution. 

Peter and Jacob regarded the building with even a deeper, more 
practical interest, for they were to enter it as students, in the course 
of a few months. 

“Poor Don Quixote would have run a hopeless tilt in this part of 
the world,” said Ben, after Lambert had been pointing out some of 
the oddities and beauties of the suburbs — “it is all windmills. You 
remember his terrific contest with one, I suppose.” 

“No,” said Lambert, bluntly. 

“Well, I don’t either, that is, not definitely. But there was some- 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 139 

thing of that kind in his adventures, and if there wasn’t, there should 
have been — Look at them, how frantically they whirl their great 
arms — just the thing to excite the crazy knight to mortal combat. 
It bewilders one to look at them; help me to count all those we can 
see. Van Mounen. I want a big item for my notebook” — and after 
a careful reckoning, superintended by all the party, Master Ben 
wrote in pencil, “Saw, Dec. — , 184 — , ninety-eight windmills within 
full view of Leyden.” 

He would have been glad to visit the old brick mill in which the 
painter Rembrandt was born; but he abandoned the project upon 
learning that it would take them out of their way. Few boys as 
hungry as Ben was by this time would hesitate long between Rem- 
brandt’s home a mile off and tiffin close by. Ben chose the latter. 

After tiffin, they rested awhile, and then — took another, which, for 
form sake, they called dinner. After dinner the boys sat warming 
themselves, at the inn; all but Peter, who occupied the time in an- 
other fruitless search for Dr. Boekman. 

This over, the party once more prepared for skating. They were 
thirteen miles from the Hague and not as fresh as when they had 
left Broek early on the previous day; but they were in good spirits 
and the ice was excellent. 


The Palace 

IN TH] 


Wood 

ChapterXII 



A S the boys skated onward, they saw a number of fine country 
seats, all decorated and surrounded according to the Dutch- 
est of Dutch taste, but impressive to look upon, with their 
great, formal houses, elaborate gardens, square hedges and wide 
ditches — some crossed by a bridge, having a gate in the middle to 
be carefully locked at night. These ditches, everywhere traversing 
the landscape, had long ago lost their summer film, and now shone 
under the sunlight, like trailing ribbons of glass. 

The boys traveled bravely, all the while performing the surprising 
feat of producing gingerbread from their pockets and causing it to 
vanish instantly. 

Twelve miles were passed. A few more long strokes would take 
them to the Hague, when Van Mounen proposed that they should 
vary their course, by walking into the city through The Bosch. 

“Agreed I” cried one and all — and their skates were off in a twin- 
kling. 

The Bosch is a grand park or wood, nearly two miles long, con- 
taining the celebrated House in the Wood — Huis in't Bosch — some- 
times used as a royal residence. 

This building, though plain outside for a palace, is elegantly fur- 
nished within, and finely frescoed — that is, the walls and ceiling 
are covered with groups and designs painted directly upon them 
while the plaster was fresh. Some of the rooms are tapestried with 
Chinese silk, beautifully embroidered. One contains a number of 
family portraits, among them a group of royal children who in time 

140 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 141 

were orphaned by a certain ax which figures very frequently in 
European history. These children were painted many times by the 
Dutch artist Van Dyck, who was court-painter to the^r father, 
Charles the First of England. Beautiful children they were — what 
a deal of trouble the English nation would have been spared, had 
they been as perfect in heart and soul, as they were in form I 

The park surrounding the palace is charming, especially in sum- 
mer, for flowers and birds make it bright as fairyland. Long rows 
of magnificent oaks rear their proud heads, conscious that no pro- 
faning hand will ever bring them low. In fact the Wood has for 
ages been held as an almost sacred spot. Children are never al- 
lowed to meddle with its smallest twig; the ax of the woodman has 
never resounded there. Even war and riot have passed it reverently, 
pausing for a moment in their devastating way. Philip of Spain, 
while he ordered Dutchmen to be mowed down by hundreds, issued 
a mandate that not a bough of the beautiful Wood should be touched 
— and once when in a time of great necessity the State was about to 
sacrifice it to assist in filling a nearly exhausted treasury, the people 
rushed to the rescue, and nobly contributed the required amount 
rather than that the Bosch should fall. 

What wonder then that the oaks have a grand, fearless air? Birds 
from all Holland have told them how, elsewhere, trees are cropped 
and bobbed into shape — but they are untouched. Year after year, 
they expand in undipped luxuriance and beauty; their wide-spread- 
ing foliage, alive with song, casts a cool shade over lawn and path- 
way, or bows to its image in the sunny ponds. 

Meanwhile, as if to reward the citizens for allowing her to have 
her way for once. Nature departs from the invariable level, wear- 
ing gracefully the ornaments that have been reverently bestowed 
upon her — So the lawn slopes in a velvety green ; the paths wind in 
and out; flower-beds glow and send forth perfume; and ponds and 
sky look at each other in mutual admiration. 

Even on that winter day the Bosch was beautiful. Its trees were 
bare, but beneath them still lay the ponds, every ripple smoothed 
into glass. The blue sky was bright overhead, and as it looked down 
through the thicket of boughs, it saw another blue sky, not nearly so 
bright, looking up from the dim thicket under the ice. 


142 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

Never had the sunset appeared more beautiful to Peter than when 
he saw it exchanging farewell glances with the windows and shining 
roofs of the city before him. Never had the Hague itself seemed 
more inviting. He was no longer Peter van Holp, going to visit a 
great city, nor a fine young gentleman bent on sight-seeing; he was 
a knight, an adventurer, travel-soiled and weary, a Hop-o’-my- 
Thumb grown large, a Fortunatus approaching the enchanted castle 
where luxury and ease awaited him — for his own sister’s house was 
not half a mile away. 

“At last, boys,” he cried, in high glee, “we may hope for a royal 
resting-place — good beds, warm rooms, and something fit to eat. I 
never realized before what a luxury such things are. Our lodgings 
at the ‘Red Lion’ have made us appreciate our own homes.” 

Well might Peter feel that his sister’s house was like an enchanted 
castle. Large and elegant as it was, a spell of quiet hung over it. 
The very lion crouching at its gate seemed to have been turned into 
stone through magic. Within, it was guarded by Genii, in the shape 
of red-faced servants, who sprang silently forth at the summons of 
bell or knocker. There was a cat, also, who appeared as knowing 
as any Puss-in-Boots ; and a brass gnome in the hall whose business 
it was to stand with outstretched arms ready to receive sticks and 
umbrellas. Safe within the walls bloomed a Garden of Delight, 
where the flowers firmly believed it was summer, and a sparkling 
fountain was laughing merrily to itself because Jack Frost could 
not find it. There was a Sleeping Beauty, too, just at the time of 
the boys’ arrival; but when Peter, like a true prince, flew lightly up 
the stairs, and kissed her eyelids, the enchantment was broken. The 
princess became his own good sister, and the fairy castle just one 
of the finest, most comfortable houses of the Hague. 

As may well be believed, the boys received the heartiest of wel- 
comes. After they had conversed awhile with their lively hostess, 
one of the Genii summoned them to a grand repast in a red-curtained 
room, where floor and ceiling shone like polished ivory, and the 
mirrors suddenly blossomed into rosy-cheeked boys as far as the eye 
could reach. 

They had caviare now, and salmagundi, and sausage and cheese, 
besides salad and fruit and biscuit and cake. How the boys could 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 143 

partake of such a medley was a mystery to Ben; for the salad was 
sour, and the cake was sweet; the fruit was dainty, and the sal- 
magundi heavy with onions and fish. But, while he was wondering, 
he made a hearty meal, and was soon absorbed in deciding which 
he really preferred, the coffee or the anisette cordial. It was de- 
lightful, too — this taking one’s food from dishes of frosted silver and 
liqueur glasses from which Titania herself might have sipped. The 
young gentleman afterward wrote to his mother that pretty and 
choice as things were at home, he had never known what cut glass, 
china and silver services were until he visited the Hague. 

Of course Peter’s sister soon heard of all the boys’ adventures. 
How they had skated over forty miles and seen rare sights on the 
way; how they had lost their purse and found it again. How one 
of the party had fallen and given them an excuse for a grand sail in 
an ice-boat; how above all, they had caught a robber, and so for a 
second time saved their slippery purse. 

“And now, Peter,” said the lady, when the story was finished, 
“you must write at once to tell the good people of Broek that your 
adventures have reached their height, that you and your fellow- 
travelers have all been taken prisoners.” 

The boys looked startled. 

“Indeed, I shall do no such thing,” laughed Peter, “we must leave 
to-morrow at noon.” 

But the sister had already decided differently, and a Holland 
lady is not to be easily turned from her purpose. In short, she held 
forth such strong temptations, and was so bright and cheerful, and 
said so many coaxing and unanswerable things, both in English and 
Dutch, that the boys were all delighted when it was settled that 
they should remain at the Hague for at least two days. 

Next the grand skating- race was talked over; Mevrouw van Gend 
gladly promised to be present on the occasion — “I shall witness your 
triumph, Peter,” she said, “for you are the fastest skater I ever knew.” 

Peter blushed and gave a slight cough, as Carl answered for him. 

“Ah, mevrouw, he is swift, but all the Broek boys are fine skaters 
— even the rag-pickers” — and he thought bitterly of poor Hans. 

The lady laughed. “That will make the race all the more ex- 
citing,” she said — “but I shall wish each of you to be the winner.” 


144 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

At this moment her husband Mynheer van Gend came in, and the 
enchantment falling upon the boys was complete. 

The invisible fairies of the household at once clustered about them 
whispering that Jasper van Gend had a heart as young and fresh 
as their own, and if he loved anything in this world, more than in- 
dustry, it was sunshine and frolic. They hinted also something about 
his having a heart full of love and a head full of wisdom, and finally 
gave the boys to understand that when Mynheer said a thing he 
meant it. 

Therefore his frank “well now, this is pleasant,” as he shook hands 
with them all, made the boys feel quite at home and as happy as 
squirrels. 

There were fine paintings in the drawing-room and exquisite 
statuary, and portfolios filled with rare Dutch engravings; besides 
many beautiful and curious things from China and Japan. The 
boys felt that it would require a month to examine all the treasures 
of the apartment. 

Ben noticed with pleasure English books lying upon the table. 
He saw also over the carved upright piano, life-sized portraits of 
William of Orange and his English queen, a sight that, for a time, 
brought England and Holland side by side in his heart. William 
and Mary have left a halo round the English throne to this day, 
he the truest patriot that ever served an adopted country, she the 
noblest wife that ever sat upon a British throne, up to the time of 
Victoria and Albert the Good. As Ben looked at the pictures, he 
remembered accounts he had read of King William’s visit to the 
Hague in the winter of 1691. He who sang the Battle of Ivry had 
not yet told the glowing story of that day, but Ben knew enough 
of it, to fancy that he could almost hear the shouts of the delighted 
populace as he looked from the portraits to the street, which at this 
moment was aglow with a bonfire, kindled in a neighboring square. 

That royal visit was one never to be forgotten. For two years 
William of Orange had been monarch of a foreign land, his head 
working faithfully for England, but his whole heart yearning for 
Holland. Now when he sought its shores once more, the entire 
nation bade him welcome. Multitudes flocked to the Hague to 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 145 

meet him — “many thousands came sliding or skating along the 
frozen canals from Amsterdam, Rotterdam, Leyden, Haarlem, 
Delft.” ‘ All day long the festivities of the capital were kept up, 
the streets were gorgeous with banners, evergreen arches, trophies, 
and mottoes of welcome and emblems of industry. William saw 
the deeds of his ancestors and scenes of his own past life, depicted 
on banners and tapestries along the streets. At night, superb fire- 
works were displayed upon the ice. Its glassy surface was like a 
mirror. Sparkling fountains of light sprang up from below to meet 
the glittering cascades leaping upon it. Then a feathery fire of 
crimson and green shook millions of rubies and emeralds, into the 
ruddy depths of the ice — and all this time the people were shouting 
— God bless William of Orange — long live the King! They were 
half mad with joy and enthusiasm. William their own prince, their 
stadt-holder, had become the ruler of three kingdoms ; he had been 
victorious in council and in war, and now in his hour of greatest 
triumph, had come as a simple guest to visit them. The king heard 
their shouts with a beating heart. It is a great thing to be beloved 
by one’s country. His English courtiers complimented him upon 
his reception. “Yes,” said he, “but the shouting is nothing to what 
it would have been if Mary had been with me!” 

While Ben was looking at the portraits. Mynheer van Gend was 
giving the boys an account of a recent visit to Antwerp. As it was 
the birthplace of Quentin Matsys the blacksmith who for love of 
an artist’s daughter, studied until he became a great painter, the 
boys asked their host if he had seen any of Matsys’ works. 

“Yes, indeed,” he replied, “and excellent they are. His famous 
triptych in a chapel of the Antwerp cathedral, with the Descent 
from the Cross on the center panel, is especially fine; but I confess 
I was more interested in his well.” 

“What well, mynheer?” asked Ludwig. 

“One in the heart of the city, near this same cathedral, whose 
lofty steeple is of such delicate workmanship, that the French Em- 
peror said it reminded him of Mechlin lace. The well is covered 
with a Gothic canopy surmounted by the figure of a knight in full 

1 Macaulay’s History of England. 


146 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

armor. It is all of metal, and proves that Matsys was an artist at 
the forge as well as at the easel ; indeed his great fame is mainly de- 
rived from his miraculous skill as an artificer in iron.” 

Next, mynheer showed the boys some exquisite Berlin castings, 
which he had purchased in Antwerp. They were iron jewelry, and 
very delicate — beautiful medallions designed from rare paintings, 
bordered with fine tracery and open work — worthy he said of being 
worn by the fairest lady of the land. Consequently the necklace 
was handed with a bow and a smile to the blushing Mevrouw van 
Gend. 

Something in the lady’s aspect, as she bent her bright young face 
over the gift, caused mynheer to add earnestly, 

“I can read your thoughts, sweetheart.” 

She looked up in playful defiance. 

“Ah! now I am sure of them. You were thinking of those noble- 
hearted women, but for whom Prussia might have fallen. I know 
it by that proud light in your eye.” 

“The proud light in my eye plays me false, then,” she answered, 
“I had no such grand matter in my mind. To confess the simple 
truth, I was only thinking how lovely this necklace would be with 
my blue brocade.” 

“So! so!” exclaimed the rather crest-fallen spouse. 

“But I can think of the other, Jasper, and it will add a deeper 
value to your gift. You remember the incident, do you not, Peter? 
How when the French were invading Prussia and for lack of means, 
the country was unable to defend itself against the enemy, the women 
turned the scale by pouring their plate and jewels into the public 
treasury — ” 

“Aha!” thought mynheer, as he met his vrouw’s kindling glance. 
“The proud light is there, now, in earnest.” 

Peter remarked maliciously that the women had still proved true 
to their vanity on that occasion, for jewelry they would have. If 
gold or silver were wanted by the kingdom, they would relinquish it 
and use iron, but they could not do without their ornaments. 

“What of that?” said the vrouw, kindling again. “It is no sin to 
love beautiful things, if you adapt your material to circumstances. 
All I have to say is, the women saved their country and, indirectly, 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 147 

introduced a very important branch of manufacture. Is not that so, 
Jasper?” 

“Of course it is, sweetheart,” said mynheer, “but Peter needs no 
word of mine to convince him that all the world over, women have 
never been found wanting in their country’s hour of trial, though 
(bowing to Mevrouw) his own countrywomen stand foremost in the 
records of female patriotism and devotion.” 

Then turning to Ben, the host talked with him in English of the 
fine old Belgian city. Among other things, he told the origin of 
its name. Ben had been taught that Antwerp was derived from 
ae^nt werf (on the wharf), but Mynheer van Gend gave him a far 
more interesting derivation. 

It appears that about three thousand years ago, a great giant, 
named Antigonus, lived on the river Scheld, on the site of the pres- 
ent city of Antwerp. This giant claimed half the merchandise of 
all navigators who passed his castle. Of course some were inclined 
to oppose this simple regulation. In such cases, Antigonus, by way 
of teaching them to practice better manners next time, cut off and 
threw into the river, the right hands of the merchants. Thus hand- 
werpen (or hand-throwing), changed to Antwerp, came to be the 
name of the place. The escutcheon or arms of the city has two 
hands upon it; what better proof than this could one have of the 
truth of the story, especially when one wishes to believe it! 

The giant was finally conquered and thrown into the Scheld by a 
hero called Brabo, who in turn gave a name to the district known as 
Brabant. Since then the Dutch merchants have traveled the river in 
peace; but I for one, thank old Antigonus for giving the city so ro- 
mantic an origin. 

When Mynheer van Gend had related in two languages this story 
of Antwerp, he was tempted to tell other legends — some in Eng- 
lish, some in Dutch ; and so the moments, borne upon the swift shoul- 
ders of gnomes and giants, glided rapidly away toward bed-time. 

It was hard to break up so pleasant a party, but the Van Gend 
household moved with the regularity of clock-work. There was no 
lingering at the threshold when the cordial “good-night!” was 
spoken. Even while our boys were mounting the stairs, the invisible 
household fairies again clustered around them, whispering that sys- 


148 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

tern and regularity had been chief builders of the master’s pros- 
perity. 

Beautiful chambers with three beds in them were not to be found 
in this mansion. Some of the rooms contained two, but each visitor 
slept alone. Before morning, the motto of the party evidently was, 
“every boy his own chrysalis” — and Peter, at least, was not sorry 
to have it so. 

Tired as he was, Ben after noting a curious bell-rope in the cor- 
ner, began to examine his bed-clothes. Each article filled him with 
astonishment — the exquisitely fine pillow-spread trimmed with 
costly lace and embroidered with a gorgeous crest and initial, the 
dekbed cover (a great silk bag, large as the bed, stuffed with swans- 
down) and the pink satin quilts, embroidered with garlands of 
flowers. He could scarcely sleep for thinking what a queer little 
bed it was, so comfortable and pretty, too, with all its queerness. 
In the morning he examined the top coverlet with care, for he 
wished to send home a description of it in his next letter. It was a 
Japanese spread, marvelous in texture as well as in its variety of 
brilliant coloring, and worth, as Ben afterward learned, not less 
than three hundred dollars. 

The floor was of polished wooden mosaic, nearly covered with a 
rich carpet bordered with thick, black fringe. Another room dis- 
played a margin of satin-wood around the carpet. Hung with 
tapestry, its walls of crimson silk were topped with a gilded cornice 
which shot down gleams of light far into the polished floor. 

Over the door-way of the room in which Jacob and Ben slept 
was a bronze stork who, with outstretched neck, held a lamp to 
light the guests into the apartment. Between the two narrow beds, 
of carved white-wood and ebony, stood the household treasure of 
the Van Gends, a massive oaken chair upon which the Prince of 
Orange had once sat, during a council meeting. Opposite, stood 
a quaintly carved clothes-press, waxed and polished to the utmost, 
and filled with precious stores of linen; beside it a table holding a 
large Bible, whose great golden clasps looked poor compared with 
its solid, ribbed binding made to outlast six generations. 

There was a ship model on the mantel-shelf, and over it hung 
an old portrait of Peter the Great, who, you know, once gave the 



“It’s all windmills.” 


4 

> 


150 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

dock-yard cats of Holland a fine chance to look at a king, which is 
one of the special prerogatives of cats. Peter, though czar of Rus- 
sia, was not too proud to work as a common shipwright in the dock- 
yards of Saardam and Amsterdam, that he might be able to in- 
troduce among his countrymen Dutch improvements in ship-build- 
ing. It was this willingness to be thorough in even the smallest 
beginnings that earned for him the title of Peter the Great. 

Peter the little (comparatively speaking) was up first, the next 
morning; knowing the punctual habits of his brother-in-law, 
he took good care that none of the boys should oversleep themselves. 
A hard task he found it to wake Jacob Poot; but after pulling that 
young gentleman out of bed, and, with Ben’s help, dragging him 
about the room for awhile, he succeeded in arousing him. 

While Jacob was dressing, and moaning within him, because the 
felt slippers, provided him as a guest, were too tight for his swollen 
feet, Peter wrote to inform their friends at Broek of the safe arrival 
of his party at the Hague. He also begged his mother to send word 
to Hans Brinker that Dr. Broekman had not yet reached Leyden, 
but that a letter containing Hans’ message had been left at the hotel, 
where the doctor always lodged during his visits to the city. “Tell 
him, also,” wrote Peter, “that I shall call there again, as I pass 
through Leyden.” The poor boy seemed to feel sure that “the 
meester” would hasten to save his father, but we, who know the gruff 
old gentleman better, may be confident he will do no such thing. It 
would be a kindness to send a visiting physician from Amsterdam 
to the cottage at once, if Jufvrouw ^ Brinker will consent to receive 
any but the great king of the meesters, as Dr. Boekman certainly is. 

“You know, mother,” added Peter, “that I have always considered 
Sister van Gend’s house as rather quiet and lonely; but I assure you, 
it is not so now. Sister says our presence has warmed it for the 
whole winter. Brother van Gend is very kind to us all. He says 
we make him wish that he had a houseful of boys of his own. He 
has promised to let us ride on his noble black horses. They are 
gentle as kittens, he says, if one have but a firm touch at the rein. 


^ In Holland, women of the lower grades of society do not take the title of Mrs. (or Mev- 
rouw) when they marry, as with us. They assume their husband’s name, but are still called 
Miss (Jufvrouw, pronounced Yuffrow). 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 151 

Ben, according to Jacob’s account, is a glorious rider, and your son 
Peter is not a very bad hand at the business; so we two are to go out 
together this morning mounted like knights of old. After we re- 
turn, brother van Gend says he will lend Jacob his English pony 
and obtain three extra horses; and all of the party are to trot about 
the city, in a grand cavalcade, led on by him. He will ride the 
black horse which father sent him from Friesland. My sister’s 
pretty roan with the long white tail, is lame and she will ride none 
other; else she would accompany us. I could scarce close my eyes 
last night after sister told me of the plan. Only the thought of 
poor Hans Brinker and his sick father checked me — but for that 
I could have sung for joy. Ludwig has given us a name already — 
the Broek Cavalry. We flatter ourselves that we shall make an im- 
posing appearance, especially in single file . . 

The Broek Cavalry were not disappointed. Mynheer van Gend 
readily procured good horses; and all the boys could ride, though 
none were as perfect horsemen (or horseboys) as Peter and Ben. 
They saw the Hague to their hearts’ content; and the Hague saw 
them — expressing its approbation, loudly, through the mouths of 
small boys and cart-dogs; silently, through bright eyes that, not look- 
ing very deeply into things, shone as they looked at the handsome 
Carl, and twinkled with fun as a certain portly youth with shaking 
cheeks rode past “bumpetty, bumpetty, bump!” 

On their return, the boys pronounced the great porcelain stove in 
the family sitting room a decidedly useful piece of furniture, for 
they could gather round it and get warm without burning their 
noses or bringing on chilblains. It was so very large that, though 
hot nowhere, it seemed to send out warmth by the houseful — Its 
pure white sides and polished brass rings, made it a pretty object 
to look upon, notwithstanding the fact that our ungrateful Ben, 
while growing thoroughly warm and comfortable beside it, con- 
cocted a satirical sentence for his next letter, to the effect that a stove 
in Holland must of course resemble a great tower of snow or it 
wouldn’t be in keeping with the oddity of the country. 

To describe all the boys saw and did on that day and the next, 
would render this little book a formidable volume indeed. They 
visited the brass cannon foundry, saw the liquid fire poured into 


152 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

molds and watched the smiths who, half naked, stood in the shadow, 
like demons playing with flame. They admired the grand public 
buildings and massive private houses, the elegant streets, and noble 
Bosch — pride of all beauty-loving Hollanders. The palace with its 
brilliant mosaic floors, its frescoed ceilings and gorgeous ornament, 
filled Ben with delight; he was surprised that some of the churches 
were so very plain — elaborate sometimes in external architecture, 
but bare and bleak within with their blank, white-washed walls. 

If there were no printed record, the churches of Holland would 
almost tell her story. I will not enter into the subject here, except 
to say that Ben — who had read of her struggles and wrongs, and of 
the terrible retribution she from time to time dealt forth — could 
scarcely tread a Holland town without mentally leaping horror- 
stricken over the bloody stepping-stones of its history. He could 
not forget Philip of Spain nor the Duke of Alva even while re- 
joicing in the prosperity that followed the Liberation. He looked 
in the meekest of Dutch eyes, for something of the fire that once lit 
the haggard faces of those desperate, lawless men, who wearing 
with pride the title of “beggars” which their oppressors had mock- 
ingly cast upon them, became the terror of land and sea. In Haar- 
lem, he had wondered that the air did not still resound with the 
cries of Alva’s three thousand victims. In Leyden, his heart had 
swelled in sympathy as he thought of the long procession of scarred 
and famished creatures who after the siege, with Adrian van der 
Werf at their head, tottered to the great church to sing a glorious 
anthem because Leyden was free! He remembered that this was 
even before they had tasted the bread brought by the Dutch ships. 
They would praise God first, then eat. Thousands of trembling 
voices were raised in glad thanksgiving. For a moment, it swelled 
higher and higher — then suddenly changed to sobbing — not one of 
all the multitude could sing another note. But who shall say that 
the anthem, even to its very end, was not heard in Heaven! 

Here, in the Hague, other thoughts came to Ben — Of how Hol- 
land in later years unwillingly put her head under the French yoke, 
and how, galled and lashed past endurance, she had resolutely jerked 
it out again. He liked her for that. What nation of any spirit, 
thought he, could be expected to stand such work, paying all her 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 153 

wealth into a foreign treasury and yielding up the flower of her 
youth under foreign conscription. It was not so very long ago, 
either, since English guns had been heard booming close by in the 
German Ocean; well — all the fighting was over at last. Holland 
was a snug little monarchy now in her own right, and Ben, for one, 
was glad of it. Arrived at this charitable conclusion, he was pre- 
pared to enjoy to the utmost all the wonders of her capital ; he quite 
delighted Mynheer van Gend with his hearty and intelligent inter- 
est — so, in fact, did all the boys, for a merrier, more observant party 
never went sight-seeing. 




,HE picture gallery, in the Maurits Huis,^ one of the finest in 


the world, seemed only to have flashed by the boys during 


a two hours’ visit, so much was there to admire and ex- 
amine. As for the Royal Cabinet of curiosities, in the same build- 
ing, they felt that they had but glanced at it though they were there 
nearly half a day. It seemed to them that Japan had poured all 
her treasures within its walls. For a long period, Holland, always 
foremost in commerce, was the only nation allowed to have any in- 
tercourse wdth Japan. One can well forego a journey to that coun- 
try if he can but visit the Museum at the Hague. 

Room after room is filled with collections from the Hermit Em- 
pire — Costumes peculiar to various ranks and pursuits, articles of 
ornament, household utensils, weapons, armor and surgical instru- 
ments. There is also an ingenious Japanese model of the island 
of Desina, the Dutch factory in Japan. It appears almost as the 
island itself would if seen through a reversed opera-glass, and makes 
one feel like a Gulliver coming unexpectedly upon a Japanese 
Liliput. There you see hundreds of people in native costumes, 
standing, kneeling, stooping, reaching — all at work, or pretending 
to be — and their dwellings, even their very furniture, spread out 
before you, plain as day. In another room a huge tortoise shell 
baby-house fitted up in Dutch style and inhabited by dignified Dutch 
dolls, stands ready to tell you at a glance how people live in Hol- 
land. 

'A building erected by Prince Maurice of Nassau. 


154 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 155 

Gretel, Hilda, Katrinka, even the proud Rychie Korbes, would 
have been delighted with this; but Peter and his gallant band passed 
it by without a glance. The war implements had the honor of de- 
taining them for an hour; such clubs, such murderous krits, or dag- 
gers, such fire-arms, and, above all, such wonderful Japanese swords, 
quite capable of performing the accredited Japanese feat of cutting 
a man in two at a single stroke I 

There were Chinese and other oriental curiosities in the collection. 
Native historical relics, too, upon which our young Dutchmen gazed 
very soberly, though they were secretly proud lo show them to Ben. 

There was a model of the cabin at Saardam in which Peter the 
Great lived during his short career as a ship-builder. Also, wallets 
and bowls — once carried by the “Beggar” Confederates who, unit- 
ing under the Prince of Orange, had freed Holland from the tyranny 
of Spain; the sword of Admiral Van Speyk who about ten years 
before had perished in voluntarily blowing up his own ship; and 
Van Tromp’s armor with the marks of bullets upon it# Jacob looked 
around, hoping to see the broom which the plucky admiral fastened 
to his mast-head — but it was not there. The waistcoat which 
William Third ^ of England wore during the last days of his life, 
possessed great interest for Ben; and one and all gazed with a mix- 
ture of reverence and horror-worship at the identical clothing worn 
by William the Silent ^ when he was murdered at Delft by Balthazar 
Geraerts. A tawny leather doublet and plain surcoat of gray cloth, 
a soft felt hat, and a high neck-ruff from which hung one of the “Beg- 
gars’ ” medals — these were not in themselves very princely objects, 
though the doublet had a tragic interest from its dark stains and bullet 
holes. Ben could readily believe, as he looked upon the garments, 
that the Silent Prince, true to his greatness of character, had been 
exceedingly simple in his attire. His aristocratic prejudices were, 
however, decidedly shocked when Lambert told him of the way in 
which William’s bride first entered the Hague. 

“The beautiful Louisa de Coligny, whose father and former hus- 
band both had fallen at the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, was com- 

^ William, Prince of Orange, who became King of England, was a great grandson of 
William the Silent, Prince of Orange, who was murdered by Geraerts (or Gerard) July 
loth, 1584. 


156 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

ing to be fourth wife to the Prince, and of course,” said Lambert, 
“we Hollanders were too gallant to allow the lady to enter the town 
on foot. No, sir, we sent (or rather my ancestors did) a clean open 
post-wagon to meet her, with a plank across it for her to sit uponl” 

“Very gallant indeed!” exclaimed Ben with almost a sneer in his 
polite laugh — “and she the daughter of an Admiral of France.” 

“Was she? Upon my word I had nearly forgotten that. But, 
you see Holland had very plain ways in the good old time, in fact 
w’e are a very simple, frugal people to this day. The Van Gend es- 
tablishment is a decided exception, you know.” 

“A very agreeable exception, I think,” said Ben. 

“Certainly, certainly. But, between you and me. Mynheer van 
Gend, though he has wrought his own fortunes, can afford to be mag- 
nificent, and yet be frugal.” 

“Exactly so,” said Ben profoundly; at the same time stroking his 
upper lip and chin, which latterly he believed had been showing de- 
lightful and unmistakable signs of coming dignities. 

While tramping on foot through the city, Ben often longed for a 
good English sidewalk. Here, as in the other towns, there was no 
curb, no raised pavement for foot travelers — but the streets were 
clean and even, and all vehicles were kept scrupulously within a cer- 
tain tract. Strange to say, there were nearly as many sleds as wagons 
to be seen, though there was not a particle of snow. The sleds went 
scraping over the bricks or cobble-stones; some provided with an 
apparatus in front for sprinkling water, to diminish the friction, and 
some rendered less musical by means of a dripping oil rag, which 
the driver occasionally applied to the runners. 

Ben was surprised at the noiseless way in which Dutch laborers do 
their work. Even around the warehouses and docks there was no 
bustle, no shouting from one to another. A certain twitch of the 
pipe, or turn of the head or, at most, a raising of the hand, seemed 
to be all the signal necessary. Entire loads of cheeses or herrings 
are pitched from cart or canal-boat into the warehouses without a 
word; but the passer-by must take his chance of being pelted, for a 
Dutchman seldom looks before or behind him while engaged at 
work. 

Poor Jacob Foot, who seemed destined to bear all the mishaps of 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 157 

the journey, was knocked nearly breathless by a great cheese, which 
a fat Dutchman was throwing to a fellow-laborer; but he recovered 
himself, and passed on without evincing the least indignation. 

Ben professed great sympathy on the occasion, but Jacob insisted 
that it was “notting.” 

“Then why did you screw your face so when it hit you?” 

“What for screw mine face,” repeated Jacob soberly, “vy, it vash 
de — de — ” 

“The what?” insisted Ben, maliciously. 

“Vy, de — de — vat you call dis, vat you taste mit de nose?” 

Ben laughed. 

“Oh, you mean the smell.” 

“Yesh. Dat ish it,” said Jacob eagerly — “it vash de shmell. I 
draw mine face for dat I” 

“Hal ha!” roared Ben, “that’s a good one. A Dutch boy smell a 
cheese. You can never make me believe thatr 

“Veil, it is no matter,” replied Jacob, trudging on beside Ben in 
perfect good humor — “vait till you hit mit cheese — dat ish all.” 

Soon he added pathetically — “Penchamin, I no likes be call Tutch 
— dat ish no goot. I bees a Hollander.” 

Just as Ben was apologizing, Lambert hailed him. 

“Hold up! Ben. Here is the fish-market. There is not much 
to be seen at this season. But we can take a look at the storks if you 
wish.” 

Ben knew that storks were held in peculiar reverence in Holland, 
and that the bird figured upon the arms of the Capital. He had 
noticed cart-wheels placed upon the roofs of Dutch cottages to entice 
storks to settle upon them ; he had seen their huge nests, too, on many 
a thatched gable roof from Broek to the Hague. But it was Winter 
now. The nests were empty. No greedy birdlings opened their 
mouths — or rather their heads — at the approach of a great white 
winged thing, with outstretched neck and legs, bearing a dangling 
something for their breakfast. The long bills were far away, pick- 
ing up food on African shores; and before they would return in the 
Spring, Ben’s visit to the land of dykes would be over. 

Therefore he pressed eagerly forward, as Van Mounen led the way 
through the fish-market, anxious to see if storks in Holland were any- 


158 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

thing like the melancholy specimens he had seen in the Zoological 
Gardens of London. 

It was the same old story. A tamed bird is a sad bird, say what 
you will. These storks lived in a sort of kennel, chained by the feet 
like felons, though supposed to be honored by being kept at the pub- 
lic expense. In Summer they were allowed to walk about the mar- 
ket, where the fish-stalls were like so many free dining-saloons to 
them. Untasted delicacies in the form of raw fish and butcher’s of- 
fals, lay about their kennels now, but the city- guests preferred to stand 
upon one leg, curving back their long neck and leaning their head 
sidewise, in a blinking reverie. How gladly they would have 
changed their petted state, for the busy life of some hard-working 
stork mother, or father, bringing up a troublesome family on the roof 
of a rickety old building, where flapping windmills frightened them 
half to death every time they ventured forth on a frolic. 

Ben soon made up his mind, and rightly, too, that the Hague with 
its fine streets and public parks shaded with elms, was a magnificent 
city. The prevailing costume was like that of London or Paris, and 
his British ears were many a time cheered by the music of British 
words. The shops were different in many respects from those on 
Oxford Street and the Strand, but they often were illumined by a 
printed announcement that English was “spoken within.” Others 
proclaimed themselves to have London Stout for sale — and one act- 
ually promised to regale its customers with English ROAST BEEF. 

Over every possible shop-door was the never-failing placard, 
“Tabak te Koop” (tobacco to be sold). Instead of colored glass 
globes in the windows, or high jars of leeches, the drug-stores had a 
gaping Turk’s head at the entrance — or, if the establishment were 
particularly fine, a wooden mandarin entire, indulging in a full yawn. 

Some of these queer faces amused Ben exceedingly; they seemed 
to have just swallowed a dose of physic; but Van Mounen declared 
he could not see anything funny about them. A druggist showed his 
sense by putting a Gaper before his door, so that his place could be 
known at once as an “apotheek” and that was all there was about it. 

Another thing attracted Ben — the milkmen’s carts. These were 
small affairs, filled with shiny brass kettles, or stone jars, and drawn 
by dogs. The milkman walked meekly beside his cart, keeping his 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 159 

dog in order, and delivering the milk to customers. Certain fish 
dealers had dog-carts, also, and when a herring-dog chanced to meet 
a milk-dog, he invariably put on airs and growled as he passed him. 
Sometimes a milk-dog would recognize an acquaintance before an- 
other milk-cart across the street, and then how the kettles would 
rattle, especially if they were empty I Each dog would give a bound 
and, never caring for his master’s whistle, insist upon meeting the 
other half way. Sometimes they contented themselves with an in- 
quisitive sniff, but, generally the smaller dog made an affectionate 
snap at the larger one’s ear, or a friendly tussle was engaged in by 
way of exercise. Then woe I to the milk kettles, and woe ! to the dogs I 

The whipping over, each dog, expressing his feelings as best he 
could, would trot leisurely back to his work. 

If some of these animals were eccentric in their ways, others were 
remarkably well-behaved. In fact, there was a school for dogs in 
the city, established expressly for training them; Ben probably saw 
some of its graduates. Many a time he noticed a span of barkers 
trotting along the street with all the dignity of horses, obeying the 
slightest hint of the man walking briskly beside them. Sometimes, 
when their load was delivered, the dealer would jump in the cart, 
and have a fine drive to his home beyond the gates of the city; and 
sometimes, I regret to say, a patient vrouw would trudge beside the 
cart, with fish-basket upon her head, and a child in her arms — while 
her lord enjoyed his drive, carrying no heavier burden than a 
stumpy clay pipe, the smoke of which mounted lovingly into her 
face. 

The sight seeing came to an end at last, and so did our boys’ visit 
to the Hague. They had spent three happy days and nights with 
the Van Gends, and, strange to say, had not once, in all that time, 
put on skates. The third day had indeed been one of rest. The 
noise and bustle of the city was hushed; sweet Sunday bells sent 
blessed, tranquil thoughts into their hearts. Ben felt, as he listened to 
their familiar music, that the Christian world is one, after all, how- 
ever divided by sects and differences it may be. As the clock speaks 
everyone’s native language in whatever land it may strike the hour, 
so church-bells are never foreign if our hearts but listen. 

Led on by those clear voices, our party, with Mevrouw van Gend 


i6o HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

and her husband, trod the quiet but crowded streets, until they came 
to a fine old church in the southern part of the city. 

The interior was large and, notwithstanding its great stained win- 
dows, seemed dimly lighted, though the walls were white, and dashes 
of red and purple sunshine lay brightly upon pillar and pew. 

Ben saw a few old women moving softly through the aisles, each 
bearing a high pile of foot-stoves which she distributed among the 
congregation by skillfully slipping out the under one, until none 
were left. It puzzled him that mynheer should settle himself with 
the boys in a comfortable side-pew, after seating his vrouw in the 
body of the church, which was filled with chairs exclusively appro- 
priated to the women. But Ben was learning only a common custom 
of the country. 

The pews of the nobility and the dignitaries of the city were cir- 
cular in form, each surrounding a column. Elaborately carved, 
they formed a massive base to their great pillars standing out in bold 
relief against the blank, white walls beyond. These columns, lofty 
and well-proportioned, were nicked and defaced from violence done 
to them long ago ; yet it seemed quite fitting that, before they were 
lost in the deep arches overhead, their softened outlines should leaf 
out as they did into richness and beauty. 

Soon, Ben lowered his gaze to the marble floor. It was a pave- 
ment of grave-stones. Nearly all the large slabs, of which it was 
composed, marked the resting-places of the dead. An armorial de- 
sign engraved upon each stone, with inscription and date, told whose 
form was sleeping beneath, and sometimes three of a family were 
lying one above the other in the same sepulcher. 

He could not but think of the solemn funeral procession winding 
by torch-light through those lofty aisles, and bearing its silent burden 
toward a dark opening whence a slab had been lifted, in readiness 
for its coming. It was something to feel that his sister Mabel, who 
died in her flower, was lying in a sunny church-yard, where a brook 
rippled and sparkled in the day-light, and waving trees whispered to- 
gether all night long; where flowers might nestle close to the head- 
stone and moon and stars shed their peace upon it, and morning birds 
sing sweetly overhead. 

Then he looked up from the pavement and rested his eyes upon 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES i6i 

the carved, oaken pulpit, exquisitely beautiful in design and work- 
manship. He could not see the minister — though, not long before, 
he had watched him slowly ascending its winding stair — a mild- 
faced man wearing a ruff about his neck, and a short cloak reaching 
nearly to the knee. 

Meantime the great church had been silently filling. Its pews 
were somber with men and its center radiant with women in their 
fresh Sunday attire. Suddenly a soft rustling spread through the 
building. All eyes were turned toward the minister now appearing 
above the pulpit. 

Although the sermon was spoken slowly, Ben could understand 
little of what was said ; but when the hymn came, he joined in with 
all his heart. A thousand voices lifted in love and praise, offered a 
grander language than he could readily comprehend. 

Once he was startled, during a pause in the service, by seeing a 
little bag suddenly shaken before him. It had a tinkling bell at its 
side, and was attached to a long stick carried by one of the deacons 
of the church. Not relying solely upon the mute appeal of the poor- 
boxes fastened to the columns near the entrance, this more direct 
method was resorted to, of awakening the sympathies of the charita- 
ble. 

Fortunately Ben had provided himself with a few stivers, or the 
musical bag must have tinkled before him in vain. 

More than once, a dark look rose on our English boy’s face that 
morning. He longed to stand up and harangue the people concern- 
ing a peculiarity that filled him with pain. Some of the men wore 
their hats during the service, or took them off whenever the humor 
prompted, and many put theirs on in the church as soon as they arose 
to leave. No wonder Ben’s sense of propriety was wounded; and 
yet a higher sense would have been exercised had he tried to feel 
willing that Hollanders should follow the customs of their country. 
But his English heart said over and over again “it is outrageous! it is 
sinful 1” 

There is an Angel called Charity who often would save our hearts 
a great deal of trouble if we would but let her in. 



MEWARP 

Bound 


ChapterXIV 

EU 


O N Monday morning, bright and early, our boys bade fare- 
well to their kind entertainers and started on their homeward 
journey. 

Peter lingered awhile at the lion-guarded door, for he and his sis- 
ter had many parting words to say. 

As Ben saw them bidding each other “good-by,” he could not help 
feeling that kisses as well as clocks were wonderfully alike every- 
where. The English kiss that his sister Jennie gave when he left 
home had said the same thing to him that the Vrouw van Gend’s 
Dutch kiss said to Peter. Ludwig had taken his share of the fare- 
well in the most matter-of-fact manner possible, and though he loved 
his sister well, had winced a little at her making such a child of him 
as to put an extra kiss “for mother” upon his forehead. 

He was already upon the canal with Carl and Jacob. Were they 
thinking about sisters or kisses? Not a bit of it. They were so happy 
to be on skates once more, so impatient to dart at once into the very 
heart of Broek, that they spun and wheeled about like crazy fellows, 
relieving themselves meantime, by muttering something about “Peter 
and donder” not worth translating. 

Even Lambert and Ben who had been waiting at the street-corner 
began to grow impatient. 

The captain joined them at last; they were soon on the canal with 
the rest. 

“Hurry up, Peter,” growled Ludwig — “we’re freezing by inches 
— there I I knew you’d be the last after all to get on your skates 1” 

162 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 163 

“Did you?” said his brother looking up with an air of deep inter- 
est — “clever boy!” 

Ludwig laughed, but tried to look cross, as he said — “I’m in ear- 
nest, anyhow. We must get home some time this year.” 

“Now, boys,” cried Peter springing up, as he fastened the last 
buckle. “There’s a clear way before us! We will imagine it’s the 
grand race. Ready! One — two — three — START!” 

I assure you very little was said for the first half hour. They 
were six Mercuries skimming the ice. In plain English they went 
like lightning — no, that is imaginary too. The fact is, one cannot 
decide what to say when half a dozen boys are whizzing past at such 
a rate. I can only tell you that each did his best, flying, with bent 
body, and eager eyes, in and out among the placid skaters on the canal, 
until the very guard shouted to them to “hold up !” This only served 
to send them onward with a two-boy power that startled all behold- 
ers. 

But the laws of inertia are stronger even than canal-guards. 

After a while Jacob slackened his speed — then Ludwig — then 
Lambert — then Carl. 

They soon halted to take a long breath, and, finally found them- 
selves standing in a group gazing after Peter and Ben who were still 
racing in the distance as if their lives were at stake. 

“It is very evident,” said Lambert, as he and his three compan- 
ions started on again, “that neither of them will give up until he can’t 
help it.” 

“What foolishness!” growled Carl, “to tire themselves at the be- 
ginning of the journey — but they’re racing in earnest — that’s certain. 
Hallo! Peter’s flagging!” 

“Not so!” cried Ludwig — “catch him being beaten!” 

“Ha! ha!” sneered Carl. “I tell you, boy, Benjamin is ahead.” 

Now if Ludwig disliked anything in this world, it was to be called 
a boy — probably because he was nothing else. He grew indignant 
at once. 

“Humph, what are you, I wonder. There, sir! now look and see 
if Peter isn’t ahead!” 

“1 think he is” interposed Lambert, “but I can’t quite tell at this 
distance.” 


i 64 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

'"I think he isn’t I” retorted Carl. 

Jacob was growing anxious — he always abhorred an argument — so 
he said in a coaxing tone — “Don’t quarrel — don’t quarrel!” 

“Don’t quarrel!” mocked Carl, looking back at Jacob as he skated. 
“Who’s quarreling? Foot, you’re a goose!” 

“I can’t help that,” was Jacob’s meek reply. “See! they are near- 
ing the turn of the canal.” 

''Now we can see!” cried Ludwig in great excitement. 

“Peter will make it first, I know.” 

“He can’t — for Ben is ahead!” insisted Carl. “Gunst! That ice- 
boat will run over him. No! he is clear! They’re a couple of geese 
anyhow. Hurrah! they’re at the turn. Who’s ahead?” 

“Peter!” cried Ludwig, joyfully. 

“Good for the captain!” shouted Lambert and Jacob. 

And Carl condescended to mutter: 

“It is Peter after all. I thought, all the time, that head fellow was 
Ben.” 

This turn in the canal had evidently been their goal, for the two 
came to a sudden halt after passing it. 

v^arl said something about being glad that they had sense enough 
to stop and rest, — and the four boys skated on in silence to overtake 
their companions. 

All the while, Carl was secretly wishing that he had kept on with 
Peter and Ben, as he felt sure he could easily have come out winner. 
He was a very rapid, though by no means a graceful, skater. 

Ben was looking at Peter with mingled vexation, admiration and 
surprise, as the boys drew near. 

They heard him saying in English: 

“You’re a perfect bird on the ice, Peter van Holp. The first fel- 
low that ever beat me in a fair race, I can tell you!” 

Peter, who understood the language better than he could speak 
it, returned a laughing bow at Ben’s compliment, but made no further 
reply. Possibly he was scant of breath at the time. 

“Now, Penchamin, vat you do mit yourself? get so hot as a fire- 
brick — dat ish no goot,” was Jacob’s plaintive comment. 

“Nonsense!” answered Ben. “This frosty air will cool me soon 
enough. I am not tired.” 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 165 

“You are beaten, though, my boy,” said Lambert in English, “and 
fairly, too. How will it be, I wonder, on the day of the grand 
race?” 

Ben flushed, and gave a proud, defiant laugh, as if to say: 

“This was mere pastime. Fm determined to beat then — come 
what will I” 

By the time the boys reached the village of Voorhout which stands 
near the grand canal, about half way between the Hague and Haar- 
lem, they were forced to hold a council. The wind, though mod- 
erate at first, had grown stronger and stronger, until at last they 
could hardly skate against it. The weather-vanes throughout the 
country had evidently entered into a conspiracy. 

“No use trying to face such a blow as this,” said Ludwig. “It 
cuts its way down a man’s throat like a knife.” 

“Keep your mouth shut, then,” grunted the affable Carl, who was 
strong-chested as a young ox, “I’m for keeping on.” 

“In this case,” interposed Peter, “we must consult the weakest of 
the party rather than the strongest.” 

The captain’s principle was all right, but its application was not 
flattering to Master Ludwig; shrugging his shoulders, he retorted: 

“Who’s weak? Not I, for one — but the wind’s stronger than any 
of us. I hope you’ll condescend to admit that!” 

“Hal hai” laughed Van Mounen, who could barely keep his feet, 
“so it is.” 

Just then the weather-vanes telegraphed to each other by a peculiar 
twitch — and, in an instant, the gust came. It nearly threw the 
strong-chested Carl; it almost strangled Jacob; and quite upset 
Ludwig. 

“This settles the question,” shouted Peter, “off with your skates! 
We’ll go into Voorhout.” 

At Voorhout they found a little inn with a big yard. The yard 
was well bricked, and better than all, was provided with a complete 
set of skittles, so our boys soon turned the detention into a frolic. 
The wind was troublesome even in that sheltered quarter, but they 
were on good standing-ground — and did not mind it. 

First a hearty dinner— then the game. With pins as long as their 
arms, and balls as big as their heads, plenty of strength left for roll- 


i66 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

ing, and a clean sweep of sixty yards for the strokes — no wonder they 
were happy. 

That night Captain Peter and his men slept soundly. No prowl- 
ing robber came to disturb them; and, as they were distributed in 
separate rooms, they did not even have a bolster-battle in the morn- 
ing. 

Such a breakfast as they ate! The landlord looked frightened. 
When he had asked them where they “belonged,” he made up his 
mind that the Broek people starved their children. It was a shame, 
“such fine young gentlemen, tool” 

Fortunately the wind had tired itself out, and fallen asleep in the 
great sea-cradle beyond the Dunes. There were signs of snow ; other- 
wise, the weather was fine. 

It was mere child’s-play for the well-rested boys to skate to Ley- 
den. Here they halted awhile, for Peter had an errand at the “Gol- 
den Eagle.” He left the city with a lightened heart; Dr. Boekman 
had been at the hotel, read the note containing Hans’ message, and 
departed for Broek. 

“I cannot say it was your letter sent him off so soon,” explained the 
landlord, “some rich lady in Broek was taken bad very sudden, and 
he was sent for in haste.” 

Peter turned pale. 

“What was the name?” he asked. 

“Indeed, it went in one ear, and out of the other — for all I hindered 
it. Plague to people who can’t see a traveler in comfortable lodg- 
ings, but they must whisk him off, before one can breathe.” 

“A lady in Broek, did you say?” 

“Yes,” very gruffly, “any other business, young master?” 

“No, mine host — except that I and my comrades here would like 
a bite of something, and a drink of hot coffee.” 

“Ah,” said the landlord, sweetly, “a bite you shall have, and cof- 
fee too, the finest in Leyden. Walk up to the stove, my masters — 
now I think again — that was a widow lady — from Rotterdam, I 
think they said — visiting at one Van Stoepel’s if I mistake not.” 

“Ah!” said Peter, greatly relieved. “They live in the white house 
by the Schlossen Mill — now, mynheer, the coffee, please!” 

“What a goose, I was,” thought he, as the party left the “Golden 




i68 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

Eagle,” “to feel so sure it was my mother — but she may be some- 
body’s mother, poor woman, for all that. Who can she be, I won- 
der?” 

There were not many upon the canal that day, between Leyden 
and Haarlem. However, as the boys neared Amsterdam, they found 
themselves once more in the midst of a moving throng. The big 
Ysbreeker} had been at work for the first time that season, but there 
was any amount of skating ground left yet. 

“Three cheers for home!” cried Van Mounen, as they came in 
sight of the great Western dock (Westelijk Dok). “Hurrah! Hur- 
rah!” shouted one and all, “Hurrah! Hurrah!” 

This trick of cheering was an importation among our party. Lam- 
bert van Mounen had brought it from England. As they always 
gave it in English, it was considered quite an exploit and, when cir- 
cumstances permitted, always enthusiastically performed, to the sore 
dismay of their quiet-loving countrymen. 

Therefore, their arrival at Amsterdam, created a great sensation, 
especially among the small boys on the wharf. 

The Y was crossed. They were on the Broek canal. 

Lambert’s home was reached first. 

“Good-by, hoys!” he cried, as he left them, “we’ve had the greatest 
frolic ever known in Holland.” 

“So we have. Good-by, Van Mounen!” answered the boys. 

“Good-by!” 

Peter hailed him. “I say. Van Mounen, the classes begin to-mor- 
row !” 

“I know it. Our holiday is over. Good-by, again.” 

“Good-by!” 

Broek came in sight. Such meetings ! Katrinka was on the canal ! 
Carl was delighted. Hilda was there! Peter felt rested in an in- 
stant. Rychie was there! Ludwig and Jacob nearly knocked each 
other over in their eagerness to shake hands with her. 

Dutch girls are modest and generally quiet; but they have very 
glad eyes. For a few moments, it was hard to decide whether Hilda, 
Rychie or Katrinka felt the most happy. 

* Ice-breaker — A heavy machine armed with iron spikes for breaking the ice as it is dragged 
along. Some of the small ones are worked by men — but the large ones are drawn by horses— 
sixty or seventy of which are sometimes attached to one Ysbreeker. 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 169 

Annie Bouman was also on the canal, looking even prettier than the 
other maidens, in her graceful, peasant’s costume. But she did not 
mingle with Rychie’s party; neither did she look unusually happy. 

The one she liked most to see was not among the new comers. In- 
deed he was not upon the canal at all. She had not been near Broek 
before, since the Eve of St. Nicholas, for she was staying with her 
sick grandmother in Amsterdam, and had been granted a brief rest- 
ing-spell, as the grandmother called it, because she had been such a 
faithful little nurse night and day. 

Annie had devoted her resting-spell to skating with all her might 
toward Broek, and back again, in the hope of meeting her mother 
or some of her family on the canal, or, it might be, Gretel Brinker — 
Not one of them had she seen — and she must hurry back, without 
even catching a glimpse of her mother’s cottage — for the poor help- 
less grandmother, she knew, was by this time moaning for someone to 
turn her upon her cot. 

Where can Gretel be? thought Annie, as she flew over the ice, 
she can almost always steal a few moments from her work, at this 
time of day — poor Gretel — what a dreadful thing it must be to have 
a dull father — I should be woefully afraid of him, I know — So strong, 
and yet so strange! 

Annie had not heard of his illness. Dame Brinker and her affairs 
received but little notice from the people of the place. 

If Gretel had not been known as a goose-girl she might have had 
more friends among the peasantry of the neighborhood. As it was, 
Annie Bouman was the only one who did not feel ashamed to avow 
herself by word and deed the companion of Gretel and Hans. 

When the neighbors’ children laughed at her for keeping such poor 
company, she would simply flush when Hans was ridiculed, or laugh 
in a careless, disdainful way; but to hear little Gretel abused always 
awakened her wrath. 

“Goose-girl! indeed!” she would say, “I can tell you any of you 
are fitter for the work than she. My father often said last Summer 
that it troubled him to see such a bright-eyed, patient little maiden 
tending geese. Humph ! She would not harm them, as you would, 
Janzoon Kolp; and she would not tread upon them, as you might, 
Kate Wouters.” 


170 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

This would be pretty sure to start a laugh at the clumsy, ill-natured 
Kate’s expense ; and Annie would walk loftily away from the group 
of young gossips. Perhaps some memory of Gretel’s assailants 
crossed her mind as she skated rapidly toward Amsterdam, for her 
eyes sparkled ominously and she more than once gave her pretty head 
a defiant toss. When that mood passed, such a bright, rosy, affec- 
tionate look illumined her face, that more than one weary working- 
man turned to gaze after her, and to wish that he had a glad, con- 
tented lass like that for a daughter. 

There were five joyous households in Broek that night. 

The boys were back safe and sound; and they found all well at 
home. Even the sick lady at neighbor Van Stoepel’s was out of dan- 
ger. 

But the next morning! Ah, how stupidly school-bells will ding- 
dong! ding-dong, when one is tired. 

lyudwig was sure he had never listened to anything so odious. 
Even Peter felt pathetic on the occasion. Carl said it was a shame 
for a fellow to have to turn out when his bones were splitting — and 
Jacob soberly bade Ben “Goot Py!” and walked off with his satchel 
as if it weighed a hundred pounds. 



W HILE the boys are nursing their fatigue, we will take a 
peep into the Brinker cottage. 

Can it be that Gretel and her mother have not stirred 
since we saw them last? That the sick man upon the bed has not 
ever turned over? It was four days ago and there is the sad group 
just as it was before. No, not precisely the same, for Raff Brinker is 
paler; his fever is gone, though he knows nothing of what is passing. 
Then, they were alone in the bare, clean room. Now there is another 
group in an opposite corner. 

Dr. Boekman is there, talking in a low tone with a stout young 
man who listens intently. The stout young man is his student and 
assistant. Hans is there also. He stands near the window respect- 
fully waiting until he shall be accosted. 

“You see, Vollenhoven,” said Dr. Boekman, “it is a clear case of” 
— and here the doctor went off into a queer jumble of Latin and 
Dutch that I cannot conveniently translate. 

After awhile, as Vollenhoven looked at him^ rather blankly, the 
learned man condescended to speak to him in simple phrase. 

“It is probably like Rip Donderdunck’s case,” he exclaimed, in a 
low, mumbling tone. “He fell from the top of Voppelploot’s wind- 
mill. After the accident the man was stupid, and finally became 
idiotic. In time he lay helpless like yon fellow on the bed, moaned, 
too, like him, and kept constantly lifting his hands to his head. My 
learned friend Von Choppem performed an operation upon this Don- 
derdunck, and discovered under the skull a small dark sac, which 

171 



172 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

pressed upon the brain. This had been the cause of the trouble. 
My friend Von Choppem removed it — a splendid operation I You 
see according to Celsus” — and here the doctor again went off into 
Latin. 

“Did the man live?” asked the assistant, respectfully. 

Dr. Boekman scowled. “That is of no consequence. I believe 
he died, but why not fix your mind on the grand features of the case. 
Consider a moment how” — and he plunged into Latin mysteries more 
deeply than ever. 

“But, mynheer,” gently persisted the student, who knew that the 
doctor would not rise to the surface for hours unless pulled at once 
from his favorite depths. “Mynheer, you have other engagements 
to-day, three legs in Amsterdam, you remember, and an eye in Broek, 
and that tumor up the canal.” 

“The tumor can wait,” said the doctor reflectively. “That is an- 
other beautiful case — a beautiful case! The woman has not lifted 
her head from her shoulder for two months — magnificent tumor, 
sir!” 

The doctor by this time was speaking aloud. He had quite forgot- 
ten where he was. 

Vollenhoven made another attempt. 

“This poor fellow on the bed, mynheer. Do you think you can 
save him?” 

“Ah, indeed, certainly,” stammered the doctor, suddenly perceiv- 
ing that he had been talking rather off the point — “certainly, that is 
— I hope so — ” 

“If anyone in Holland can, mynheer,” murmured the assistant with 
honest bluntness — “it is yourself.” 

The doctor looked displeased — growled out a tender request for 
the student to talk less, and beckoned Hans to draw near. 

This strange man had a great horror of speaking to women, es- 
pecially on surgical matters. “One can never tell,” he said, “what 
moment the creatures will scream, or faint.” Therefore he explained 
Raff Brinker’s case to Hans and told him what he believed should 
be done to save the patient. 

Hans listened attentively, growing red and pale by turns, and 
throwing quick, anxious glances toward the bed. 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 173 

“It may kill the father — did you say, mynheer?” he exclaimed at 
last, in a trembling whisper. 

“It may, my boy. But I have a strong belief that it will cure and 
not kill. Ah I if boys were not such dunces, I could lay the whole 
matter before you, but it would be of no use.” 

Hans looked blank, at this compliment. 

“It would be of no use,” repeated Doctor Boekman indignantly, 
“a great operation is proposed^ — but one might as well do it with a 
hatchet. The only question asked is — ‘will it kill?’ ” 

“The question is everything to us, mynheer,” said Hans, with tear- 
ful dignity. 

Doctor Boekman looked at him in sudden dismay. 

“Ah I exactly so. You are right, boy, I am a fool. Good boy. 
One does not wish one’s father killed — of course not. I am a fool.” 

“Will he die, mynheer, if this sickness goes on?” 

“Humph ! this is no new illness. The same thing growing worse 
every instant — pressure on the brain — will take him off soon like 
that” said the doctor, snapping his fingers. 

“And the operation may save him,” pursued Hans; “how soon, 
mynheer, can we know?” 

Doctor Boekman grew impatient. 

“In a day, perhaps an hour. Talk with your mother, boy, and let 
her decide. My time is short.” 

Hans approached his mother; at first, when she looked up at him, 
he could not utter a syllable ; then turning his eyes away he said in a 
firm voice : 

“I must speak with the mother alone.” 

Quick little Gretel, who could not quite understand what was pass- 
ing, threw rather an indignant look at Hans, and walked away. 

“Come back, Gretel, and sit down,” said Hans sorrowfully. 

She obeyed. 

Dame Brinker and her boy stood by the window while the Doctor 
and his assistant, bending over the bedside, conversed together in a 
low tone. There was no danger of disturbing the patient. He ap- 
peared like one blind and deaf. Only his faint, piteous moans 
showed him to be a living man. Hans was talking earnestly, and in 
a low voice, for he did not wish his sister to hear. 


174 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

With dry, parted lips, Dame Brinker leaned toward him searching 
his face, as if suspecting a meaning beyond'his words. Once she gave 
a quick, frightened sob that made Gretel start, but, after that, listened 
calmly. 

When Hans ceased to speak, his mother turned, gave one long, 
agonized look at her husband, lying there so pale and unconscious, 
and threw herself on her knees, beside the bed. 

Poor little Gretel ! what did all this mean? She looked with ques- 
tioning eyes at Hans; he was standing, but his head was bent as if in 
prayer; — at the Doctor, he was gently feeling her father’s head, and 
looked like one examining some curious stone; — at the assistant; the 
man coughed and turned away; — at her mother. Ah! little Gretel, 
that was the best you could do — to kneel beside her and twine your 
warm, young arms about her neck — to weep and implore God to 
listen. 

When the mother arose. Doctor Boekman, with a show of trouble 
in his eyes, asked gruffly, “well, jufvrouw, shall it be done?” 

“Will it pain him, mynheer?” she asked in a trembling voice. 

“I cannot say. Probably not. Shall it be done?” 

“It may cure him, you said and — mynheer, did you tell my boy 
that — perhaps — perhaps” — she could not finish. 

“Yes, jufvrouw, I said the patient might sink under the operation 
• — but we will hope it may prove otherwise — ” (He looked at his 
watch. The assistant moved impatiently toward the window.) 
“Come, jufvrouw, time presses. Yes, or no?” 

Hans wound his arm about his mother. It was not his usual way. 
He even leaned his head against her shoulder. 

“The meester awaits an answer,” he whispered. 

Dame Brinker had long been the head of her house in every sense 
— Many a time she had been very stern with Hans, ruling him with 
a strong hand, and rejoicing in her motherly discipline — now she 
felt so weak, so helpless. It was something to feel that firm em- 
brace. There was strength even in the touch of that yellow hair. 

She turned to her boy imploringly. 

“Oh, Hans! What shall I say?” 

“Say what God tells thee, mother,” answered Hans, bowing his 
head. 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 175 

One quick, questioning prayer to Heaven rose from the mother’s 
heart. The answer came. 

She turned toward Doctor Boekman. 

“It is right, mynheer. I consent.” 

“Humph 1” grunted the doctor, as if to say you’ve been long enough 
about it. Then he conferred a moment with his assistant, who 
listened with great outward deference but was inwardly rejoicing 
at the grand joke he would have to tell his fellow students. He had 
actually seen a tear in “old Boekman’s” eye. 

Meanwhile Gretel looked on in trembling silence — but when she 
saw the doctor open a leathern case, and take out one sharp, gleam- 
ing instrument after another, she sprang forward. 

“Oh, mother — the poor father meant no wrong. Are they going 
to murder him?” 

“I do not know, child,” screamed Dame Brinker, looking fiercely 
at Gretel. “I DO NOT know.” 

“This will not do, jufvrouw,” said Dr. Boekman sternly, and at 
the same time he cast a quick, penetrating look at Hans — “you and 
the girl must leave the room. The boy may stay.” 

Dame Brinker drew herself up in an instant. Her eyes flashed. 
Her whole countenance was changed. She looked like one who had 
never wept, never felt a moment’s weakness. Her voice was low but 
decided. “I stay with my husband, mynheer.” 

Dr. Boekman looked astonished. His orders were seldom dis- 
regarded in this style. For an instant his eye met hers. 

“You may remain, jufvrouw,” he said in an altered voice. 

Gretel had already disappeared. 

In one corner of the cottage was a small closet where her rough, 
box-like bed was fastened against the wall : none would think of the 
trembling little creature crouching there in the dark. 

Dr, Boekman took off his heavy coat; he filled an earthen basin 
with water and placed it near the bed. Then turning to Hans he 
asked : 

“Can I depend upon you, boy?” 

“You can, mynheer.” 

“I believe you. Stand at the head, here — your mother may sit at 
your right — so,” and he placed a chair near the cot. 


176 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

“Remember, jufvrouw, there must be no cries, no fainting.’* 

Dame Brinker answered him with a look. 

He was satisfied. 

“Now, Vollenhoven.” 

Oh I that case with the terrible instruments. The assistant lifted 
them. Gretel, who had been peering, with brimming eyes, through 
the crack of the closet door, could remain silent no longer. 

She rushed frantically across the apartment, seized her hood, and 
ran from the cottage. 



RBTEL 

AND 

Hilda 


Chapter 


I T was recess-hour. At the first stroke of the school-house 
bell, the canal seemed to give a tremendous shout, and grow 
suddenly alive with boys and girls. The sly thing, shining so 
quietly under the noonday sun, was a kaleidoscope at heart, and only 
needed a shake from that great clapper to start it into dazzling 
changes. 

Dozens of gayly clad children were skating in and out among 
each other, and all their pent-up merriment of the morning was re- 
lieving itself in song and shout and laughter. There was nothing to 
check the flow of frolic. Not a thought of school-books came out 
with them into the sunshine. Latin, Arithmetic, Grammar, all were 
locked up for an hour in the dingy school-room. The teacher might 
be a noun if he wished, and a proper one at that, but they meant to 
enjoy themselves. As long as the skating was as perfect as this, it 
made no difference whether Holland were on the North Pole or the 
Equator; and, as for Philosophy, how could they bother themselves 
about inertia and gravitation and such things, when it was as much 
as they could do to keep from getting knocked over in the commo- 
tion. 

In the height of the fun, one of the children called out: 

‘What is that?” 

“What? Where?” cried a dozen voices. 

“Why — don’t you see? That dark thing over there by the idiot’s 
cottage.” 

“I don’t see anything,” said one. 

177 


178 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

“I do,” shouted another, “it’s a dog!” 

“Where’s any dog?” put in a squeaky voice that we have heard 
before — “it’s no such thing — it’s a heap of rags.” 

“Pooh! Voost,” retorted another gruffly, “that’s about as near the 
fact as you ever get, it’s the goose-girl, Gretel, looking for rats.” 

“Well, what of it?” squeaked Voost, “isn’t she a bundle of rags, 
I’d like to know?” 

“Ha! ha! Pretty good for you, Voost! You’ll get a medal for 
wit yet, if you keep on.” 

“You’d get something else, if her brother Hans were here. I’ll 
warrant you would!” said a muffled up little fellow, with a cold in his 
head. 

As Hans was not there, Voost could afford to scout the insinuation. 

“Who cares for him, little sneezer? I’d fight a dozen like him 
any day, and you in the bargain.” 

“You would! would you? I’d like to catch you at it,” and, by 
way of proving his words, the sneezer skated off at the top of his 
speed. 

Just then a general chase after three of the biggest boys of the 
school was proposed, — and friend and foe, frolicsome as ever, were 
soon united in a common cause. 

Only one of all that happy throng remembered the dark little form 
by the idiot’s cottage. Poor, frightened Gretel! She was not think- 
ing of them, though their merry laughter floated lightly toward her, 
making her feel like one in a dream. 

How loud the moans were behind the darkened window — ^What if 
those strange men were really killing her father! 

The thought made her spring to her feet with a cry of horror! 

“Ah! no,” she sobbed, sinking upon the frozen mound of earth 
where she had been sitting, “mother is there, and Hans. They will 
care for him. But how pale they were. And even Hans was cry- 
ing! 

“Why did the cross old meester keep him, and send me away,” she 
thought, “I could have clung to the mother and kissed her. That 
always makes her stroke my hair and speak gentle, even after she has 
scolded me! How quiet it is now! Oh, if the father should die, and 
Hans, and the mother, what would I do?” and Gretel, shivering with 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 179 

cold, buried her face in her arms, and cried as if her heart would 
break. 

The poor child had been tasked beyond her strength during the 
past four days. Through all, she had been her mother’s willing 
little hand-maiden, soothing, helping and cheering the half-widowed 
woman by day, and watching and praying beside her all the long 
night. She knew that something terrible and mysterious was taking 
place at this moment, something that had been too terrible and mys- 
terious for even kind, good Hans to tell. 

Then new thoughts came. Why had not Hans told her? It was 
a shame. It was her father as well as his. She was no baby. She 
had once taken a sharp knife from the father’s hand. She had even 
drawn him away from the mother on that awful night when Hans, 
big as he was, could not help her. Why then must she be treated 
like one who could do nothing? Oh, how very still it was — how bit- 
ter, bitter cold! If Annie Bouman had only stayed home instead of 
going to Amsterdam it wouldn’t be so lonely. How cold her feet 
were growing — was it the moaning that made her feel as if she were 
floating in the airl 

This would not do — the mother might need her help at any mo- 
ment! 

Rousing herself with an effort, Gretel sat upright, rubbing her 
eyes and wondering — wondering that the sky was so bright and blue 
— wondering at the stillness in the cottage — more than all, at the 
laughter rising and falling in the distance. 

Soon she sank down again, the strange medley of thought growing 
more and more confused in her bewildered brain. 

What a strange lip the meester had! How the stork’s nest upon 
the roof seemed to rustle and whisper down to her! How bright 
those knives were, in the leathern case — brighter perhaps than the 
silver skates. If she had but worn her new jacket she would not 
shiver so. The new jacket was pretty— the only pretty thing she 
had ever worn. God had taken care of her father so long, He would 
do it still, if those two men would but go away. Ah, now the mees- 
sters were on the roof, they were clambering to the top — no — it was 
her mother and Hans, — or the storks — it was so dark who could tell? 
and the mound rocking, swinging in that strange way. How sweetly 


i8o HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

the birds were singing. They must be Winter birds, for the air was 
thick with icicles — not one bird — but twenty. Oh I hear them, 
mother — wake me, mother, for the race — I am so tired with crying, 
and crying — 

A firm hand was laid upon her shoulder. 

“Get up, little girll” cried a kind voice. “This will not do, for 
you to lie here and freeze.” 

Gretel slowly raised her head. She was so sleepy that it seemed 
nothing strange to her that Hilda van Gleck should be leaning over 
her, looking with kind, beautiful eyes into her face. She had often 
dreamed it before. 

But she had never dreamed that Hilda was shaking her roughly, 
almost dragging her by main force — never dreamed that she heard 
her saying, “Gretel I Gretel Brinkerl you must wake!” 

This was real. Gretel looked up. Still the lovely delicate young 
lady was shaking, rubbing, fairly pounding her. It must be a dream. 
No, there was the cottage — and the stork’s nest, and the meester’s 
coach by the canal. She could see them now quite plainly. Her 
hands were tingling, her feet throbbing — Hilda was forcing her to 
walk. 

At last Gretel began to feel like herself again. 

“I have been asleep,” she faltered, rubbing her eyes with both 
hands and looking very much ashamed. 

“Yes, indeed, entirely too much asleep,” laughed Hilda, whose 
lips were very pale, “but you are well enough now — lean upon me, 
Gretel; there, keep moving — you will soon be warm enough to go 
by the fire — now let me take you into the cottage.” 

“Oh, no! no I no! jufvrouw, not in there I the meester is there. He 
sent me awayl” 

Hilda was puzzled, but she wisely forebore to ask at present for 
an explanation. “Very well, Gretel — try to walk faster — I saw you 
upon the mound some time ago ; but I thought you were playing — 
that is right — keep moving.” 

All this time the kind-hearted girl had been forcing Gretel to walk 
up and down, supporting her with one arm, and, with the other, 
striving as well as she could to take off her own warm sacque. 

Suddenly Gretel suspected her intention. 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES i8i 

“Oh, jufvrouw! jufvrouw!” she cried imploringly. '^Please never 
think of such a thing as that — oh I please keep it on, I am burning 
all over, jufvrouw 1 I really am burning — not burning exactly — 
but pins and needles pricking all over me — oh! jufvrouw, don’t.” 

The poor child’s dismay was so genuine that Hilda hastened to re- 
assure her. 

“Very well, Gretel, move your arms then — so. Why your cheeks 
are as pink as roses, already. I think the meester would let you in 
now — he certainly would — is your father so very ill?” 

“Ah, jufvrouw,” cried Gretel, weeping afresh, “he is dying, I 
think. There are two meesters in with him at this moment, and the 
mother has scarce spoken to-day. Can you hear him moan, 
jufvrouw?” she added, with sudden terror, “the air buzzes so I can- 
not hear. He may be dead! oh, I do wish I could hear him!” 

Hilda listened. The cottage was very near, but not a sound could 
be heard. 

Something told her that Gretel was right. She ran to the win- 
dow. 

“You cannot see there, my lady,” sobbed Gretel, eagerly, “the 
mother has oiled paper hanging inside. But at the other one, in 
the south end of the cottage you can look in where the paper is torn.” 

Hilda in her anxiety ran round, past the corner where the low 
roof was fringed with its loosened thatch. 

A sudden thought checked her. 

“It is not right for me to peep into another’s house in this way,” 
she said to herself — then softly calling to Gretel, she added, in a 
whisper, “You may look — perhaps he is only sleeping.” 

Gretel tried to walk briskly toward the spot, but her limbs were 
trembling. Hilda hastened to her support. 

“You are sick, yourself, I fear,” she said kindly. 

“No, not sick, jufvrouw — but my heart cries all the time now, 
even when my eyes are as dry as yours — why! Jufvrouw, your eyes 
are not dry! Are you crying for us! Oh, Jufvrouw — if God sees 
you! Oh! I know father will get better now—” and the little 
creature, even while reaching to look through the tiny window, kissed 
Hilda’s hand again and again. 

The sash was sadly patched and broken, a torn piece of paper 


i 82 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

hung half way down across it. Gretel’s face was pressed to the 
window. 

“Can you see anything?” whispered Hilda at last. 

“Yes — the father lies very still, his head is bandaged and all their 
eyes are fastened upon him. Oh, jufvrouwl” almost screamed 
Gretel, as she started back, and by a quick, dexterous movement shook 
off her heavy wooden shoes, “I must go in to my mother I Will you 
come with me?” 

“Not now, the bell is ringing, I shall come again soon. Good- 
by!” 

Gretel scarce heard the words. She remembered for many a day 
afterward, the bright, pitying smile on Hilda’s face, as she turned 
away. 

An angel could not have entered the cottage more noiselessly. 
Gretel, not daring to look at anyone, slid softly to her mother’s side. 

The room was very still. She could hear the old doctor breathe. 
She could almost hear the sparks as they fell into the ashes on the 
hearth. The mother’s hand was very cold, but a burning spot 
glowed on her cheek; and her eyes were like a deer’s — so bright, so 
sad, so eager. 

At last there was a movement upon the bed, very slight, but enough 
to cause them all to start; Dr. Boekman leaned eagerly forward. 

Another movement. The large hand, so white and soft for a poor 
man’s hand, twitched — then raised itself steadily toward the fore- 
head. 

It felt the bandage, not in a restless, crazy way, but with a ques- 
tioning movement, that caused even Dr. Boekman to hold his breath. 
Then the eyes opened slowly. 

“Steady! steady!” said a voice that sounded very strangely to Gretel. 
“Shift that mat higher, boys! now throw on the clay. The waters are 
rising fast — no time to — ” 

Dame Brinker sprang forward like a young panther. 

She seized his hands, and leaning over him, cried “Raff! Raff, boy, 
speak to me!” 

“Is it you, Meitje?” he asked faintly — “I have been asleep, hurt, I 
think — where is little Hans?” 



Gretel’s face was pressed to the window. 


i 84 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

“Here I am, father I” shouted Hans half mad with joy. But the 
doctor held him back. 

“He knows usl” screamed Dame Brinker. “Great God I he knows 
us I Gretell Gretell come, see your father!” 

In vain Dr. Boekman commanded “silence!” and tried to force 
them from the bedside. He could not keep them off. 

Hans and his mother laughed and cried together, as they hung 
over the newly- awakened man. Gretel made no sound, but gazed 
at them all with glad, startled eyes. Her father was speaking in a 
faint voice. 

“Is the baby asleep, Meitje?” 

“The baby!” echoed Dame Brinker. “Oh, Gretel! that is you! 
And he calls Hans, ‘little Hans.’ Ten years asleep! Oh, mynheer, 
you have saved us all. He has known nothing for ten years! Chil- 
dren, why don’t you thank the meester?” 

The good woman was beside herself with joy. Dr. Boekman said 
nothing; but as his eye met hers, he pointed upward. She under- 
stood. So did Hans and Gretel. 

With one accord they knelt by the cot, side by side. Dame Brinker 
felt for her husband’s hand even while she was praying. Dr. Boek- 
man’s head was bowed ; the assistant stood by the hearth with his back 
toward them. 

“Why do you pray?” murmured the father, looking feebly from 
the bed, as they rose. “Is it God’s day?” 

It was not Sunday; but his vrouw bowed her head — she could not 
speak. 

“Then we should have a chapter,” said Raff Brinker, speaking 
slowly, and with difficulty. “I do not know how it is. I am very, 
very weak. Mayhap the minister will read to us.” 

Gretel lifted the big Dutch Bible from its carved shelf. Dr. Boek- 
man, rather dismayed at being called a minister, coughed and handed 
the Volume to his assistant. 

“Read,” he muttered, “these people must be kept quiet or the man 
will die yet.” 

When the chapter was finished, Dame Brinker motioned mysteri- 
ously to the rest by way of telling them that her husband was asleep. 

“Now, jufvrouw,” said the doctor in a subdued tone, as he drew 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 185 

on his thick woolen mittens, “there must be perfect quiet. You un- 
derstand. This is truly a most remarkable case. I shall come again 
to-morrow. Give the patient no food to-day,” and bowing hastily, 
he left the cottage, followed by his assistant. 

His grand coach was not far away; the driver had kept the horses 
moving slowly up and down by the canal, nearly all the time the doc- 
tor had been in the cottage. 

Hans went out also. 

“May God bless you, mynheer I” he said, blushing and trembling, 
“I can never repay you, but if — ” 

“Yes, you can,” interrupted the doctor, crossly. “You can use 
your wits when the patient wakes again. This clacking and snivel- 
ing is enough to kill a well man, let alone one lying on the edge of 
his grave. If you want your father to get well, keep ’em quiet.” 

So saying. Doctor Boekman, without another word, stalked off to 
meet his coach, leaving Hans standing there with eyes and mouth 
wide open. 

Hilda was reprimanded severely that day for returning late to 
school after recess, and for imperfect recitations. 

She had remained near the cottage until she heard Dame Brinker 
laugh, until she had heard Hans say, “here I am, fatherl” and then 
she had gone back to her lessons. What wonder that she missed 
them! How could she get a long string of Latin verbs by heart, 
when her heart did not care a fig for them, but would keep saying to 
itself, “Oh, I am so glad! I am so glad!” 



Bones and Tongues 


B ones are strange things. One would suppose that they 
know nothing at all about school affairs, but they do. Even 
Jacob Foot’s bones, buried as they were in flesh, were sharp 
in the matter of study hours. 

Early on the morning of his return they ached through and 
through, giving Jacob a twinge at every stroke of the school-bell — 
as if to say “stop that clapper! There’s trouble in it.” After school, 
on the contrary, they were quiet and comfortable ; in fact, seemed to 
be taking a nap among their cushions. 

The other boys’ bones behaved in a similar manner — but that is 
not so remarkable. Being nearer the daylight than Jacob’s, they 
might be expected to be more learned in the ways of the world. 
Master Ludwig’s, especially, were like beauty, only skin deep ; they 
were the most knowing bones you ever heard of. Just put before 
him ever so quietly, a Grammar-book with a long lesson marked in 
it, and immediately the sly bone over his eyes would set up such an 
aching! Request him to go to the garret for your foot-stove — in- 
stantly the bones would remind him that he was “too tired.” Ask 
him to go to the confectioner’s, a mile away, and presto! not a bone 
would remember that it ever had been used before. 

Bearing all this in mind you will not wonder when I tell you that 
our five boys were among the happiest of the happy throng pouring 
forth from the school-house that day. 

Peter was in excellent spirits. He had heard through Hilda of 
Dame Brinker’s laugh and of Hans’ joyous words, and he needed 

186 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 187 

no further proof that Raff Brinker was a cured man. In fact the 
news had gone forth in every direction, for miles around. Persons 
who had never before cared for the Drinkers, or even mentioned 
them, except with a contemptuous sneer or a shrug of pretended pity, 
now became singularly familiar with every point of their history. 
There was no end to the number of ridiculous stories that were flying 
about. 

Hilda, in the excitement of the moment, had stopped to exchange 
a word with the doctor’s coachman, as he stood by the horses, pom- 
meling his chest and clapping his hands. Her kind heart was over- 
flowing. She could not help pausing to tell the cold, tired-looking 
man, that she thought the doctor would be out soon; she even hinted 
to him that she suspected — only suspected — that a wonderful cure 
had been performed — an idiot brought to his senses. Nay, she was 
sure of it — for she had heard his widow laugh — no, not his widow, 
of course, but his wife — for the man was as much alive as anybody, 
and, for all she knew, sitting up and talking like a lawyer. 

All this was very indiscreet. Hilda in an impenitent sort of way 
felt it to be so. 

But it is always so delightful to impart pleasant or surprising 
news I 

She went tripping along by the canal, quite resolved to repeat 
the sin, ad infinitum, and tell nearly every girl and boy in the 
school. 

Meantime, Janzoon Kolp came skating by. Of course in two 
seconds, he was striking slippery attitudes, and shouting saucy things 
to the coachman, who stared at him in indolent disdain. 

This, to Janzoon, was equivalent to an invitation to draw nearer. 
The coachman was now upon his box gathering up the reins and 
grumbling at his horses. 

Janzoon accosted him. 

*‘I say. What’s going on at the idiot’s cottage? Is your boss in 
there?” 

Coachman nodded mysteriously. 

“Whew!” whistled Janzoon, drawing closer. “Old Brinker 
dead?” 

The driver grew big with importance, and silent in proportion. 


i88 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

“See here, old pincushion, I’d run home yonder and get you a 
chunk of gingerbread if I thought you could open your mouth.” 

Old pincushion was human — long hours of waiting had made him 
ravenously hungry. At Janzoon’s hint, his countenance showed 
signs of a collapse. 

“That’s right, old fellow,” pursued his tempter, “hurry up — what 
news — old Brinker dead?” 

“No — CURED 1 got his wits,” said the coachman, shooting forth his 
words, one at a time, like so many bullets. 

Like bullets (figuratively speaking) they hit Janzoon Kolp. He 
jumped as if he had been shot. 

“Goede Gunst! you don’t say so!” 

The man pressed his lips together, and looked significantly toward 
Master Kolp’s shabby residence. 

Just then Janzoon saw a group of boys in the distance. Hailing 
them in a rowdy style, common to boys of his stamp all over the 
world, whether in Africa, Japan, Amsterdam or Paris — he scam- 
pered toward them, forgetting coachman, gingerbread, everything 
but the wonderful news. 

Therefore by sundown it was well known throughout the neigh- 
boring country that Dr. Boekman chancing to stop at the cottage 
had given the idiot Brinker a tremendous dose of medicine, as brown 
as gingerbread. It had taken six men to hold him while it was 
poured down. The idiot had immediately sprung to his feet, in full 
possession of all his faculties — knocked over the doctor, or thrashed 
him (there was admitted to be a slight uncertainty as to which of 
these penalties was inflicted), then sat down and addressed him for 
all the world like a lawyer. After that he had turned and spoken 
beautifully to his wife and children. Dame Brinker had laughed 
herself into violent hysterics. Hans had said, “Here I am, father I 
your own dear son,” and Gretel had said, “Here I am, father, your 
own dear Gretel!” and the doctor had afterward been seen leaning 
back in his carriage looking just as white as a corpse. 

When Dr. Boekman called the next day at the Brinker cottage, 
he could not help noticing the cheerful, comfortable aspect of the 
place. An atmosphere of happiness breathed upon him as he opened 
the door. Dame Brinker sat complacently knitting beside the bed, 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 189 

her husband was enjoying a tranquil slumber, and Gretel was noise- 
lessly kneading rye-bread on the table in the corner. 

The doctor did not remain long. He asked a few simple questions, 
appeared satisfied with the answers, and after feeling his patient’s 
pulse, said — “Ah, very weak yet, jufvrouw; very weak, indeed. He 
must have nourishment. You may begin to feed the patient, aheml 
not too much, but what you do give him let it be strong and of the 
best.” 

“Black bread, we have, mynheer, and porridge,” replied Dame 
Brinker, cheerily, “they have always agreed with him well.” 

“Tut I tut!” said the doctor frowning, “nothing of the kind. He 
must have the juice of fresh meat, white bread, dried and toasted, 
good Malaga wine, and — aheml The man looks cold — give him 
more covering, something light and warm. Where is the boy?” 

“Hans, mynheer, has gone into Broek to look for work. He will 
be back soon. Will the meester please be seated?” 

Whether the hard polished stool offered by Dame Brinker did not 
look particularly tempting, or whether the dame herself frightened 
him, partly because she was a woman, and partly because an anxious, 
distressed look had suddenly appeared in her face, I cannot say. 
Certain it is that our eccentric doctor looked hurriedly about him, 
muttered something about “extraordinary case,” bowed, and disap- 
peared, before Dame Brinker had time to say another word. 

Strange that the visit of their good benefactor should have left a 
cloud, yet so it was. Gretel frowned, an anxious childish frown, 
and kneaded the bread-dough violently, without looking up. Dame 
Brinker hurried to her husband’s bedside, leaned over him, and fell 
into silent but passionate weeping. 

In a moment Hans entered. 

“Why, mother,” he whispered in alarm, “what ails thee? Is the 
father worse?” 

She turned her quivering face toward him, making no attempt to 
conceal her distress. 

“Yes. He is starving — perishing. The meester said it.” 

Hans turned pale. 

“What does this mean, mother? We must feed him at once. 
Here^ Gretel, give me the porridge.” 


190 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

“Nay I” cried his mother, distractedly, yet without raising her voice, 
“it may kill him. Our poor fare is too heavy for him. Oh, Hans, 
he will die — the father will die if we use him this way. He must 
have meat, and sweet wine, and a dek-bed. Oh, what shall I do? 
what shall I do?” she sobbed, ringing her hands. “There is not a 
stiver in the house.” 

Gretel pouted; it was the only way she could express sympathy 
just then ; her tears fell one by one into the dough. 

“Did the meester say he must have these things, mother?” asked 
Hans. 

“Yes, he did.” 

“Well, mother, don’t cry, he shall have them; I shall bring meat 
and wine before night. Take the cover from my bed, I can sleep 
in the straw.” 

“Yes, Hans; but it is heavy, scant as it is. The meester said he 
must have something light and warm. He will perish. Our peat is 
giving out, Hans. The father has wasted it sorely, throwing it on 
when I was not looking, dear man.” 

“Never mind, mother,” whispered Hans, cheerfully. “We can 
cut down the willow tree and burn it, if need be; but I’ll bring home 
something to-night. There must be work in Amsterdam, though 
there’s none in Broek. Never fear, mother; the worst trouble of all 
is past. We can brave anything now that the father is himself 
again.” 

“Ayel” sobbed Dame Brinker, hastily drying her eyes, “that is true 
indeed.” 

“Of course it is. Look at him, mother, how softly he sleeps. Do 
you think God would let him starve, just after giving him back to us? 
Why, mother, I’m as sure of getting all the father needs, as if my 
pocket was bursting with gold. There, now, don’t fret.” And hur- 
riedly kissing her, Hans caught up his skates and slipped from the 
cottage. 

Poor Hans I Disappointed in his morning’s errand, half sick- 
ened with this new trouble, he wore a brave look, and tried to whistle 
as he tramped resolutely off with the firm intention of mending mat- 
ters. 

Want had never before pressed as sorely upon the Brinker family. 



Hans slipped from the cottage. 



192 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

Their stock of peat was nearly exhausted, and all the flour in the 
cottage was in Gretel’s dough. They had scarcely cared to eat dur- 
ing the past few days — scarcely realized their condition. Dame 
Brinker had felt so sure that she and the children could earn money 
before the worst came, that she had given herself up to the joy of 
her husband’s recovery. She had not even told Hans that the few 
pieces of silver in the old mitten were quite gone. 

Hans reproached himself, now, that he had not hailed the doctor 
when he saw him enter his coach and drive rapidly away in the direc- 
tion of Amsterdam. 

Perhaps there is some mistake he thought. The meester surely 
would have known that meat and sweet wine were not at our com- 
mand; and yet the father looks very weak — he certainly does. I 
must get work. If Mynheer van Holp were back from Rotterdam 
I could get plenty to do. But Master Peter told me to let him know 
if he could do aught to serve us. I shall go to him at once. Oh, if 
it were but Summer 1” 

All this time Hans was hastening towards the canal. Soon his 
skates were on, and he was skimming rapidly toward the residence 
of Mynheer van Holp. 

^‘The father must have meat and wine at once,” he muttered, 
‘‘but how can I earn the money in time to buy them to-day? There is 
no other way but to go, as I promised, to Master Peter. What would 
a gift of meat and wine be to him? When the father is once fed, I 
can rush down to Amsterdam and earn the morrow’s supply.” 

Then came other thoughts — thoughts that made his heart thump 
heavily and his cheeks burn with a new shame — “It is begging, to say 
the least. Not one of the Brinkers has ever been a beggar. Shall I 
be the first? Shall my poor father just coming back into life learn 
that his family have asked for charity — he, always so wise and thrifty? 
No,” cried Hans aloud, “better a thousand times to part with the 
watch.” 

“I can at least borrow money on it, in Amsterdam 1” he thought, 
turning around, “That will be no disgrace. I can find work at once, 
and get it back again. Nay, perhaps I can even speak to the father 
about itr 

This last thought almost made the lad dance for joy. Why not. 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 193 

indeed, speak to the father. He was a rational being now. “He 
may wake,” thought Hans, “quite bright and rested — may tell us the 
watch is of no consequence, to sell it of course I Hoezzal” and Hans 
almost flew over the ice. 

A few moments more and the skates were again swinging from his 
arm. He was running towards the cottage. 

His mother met him at the door. 

“Oh, Hansl” she cried, her face radiant with joy, “the young lady 
has been here with her maid. She brought everything — meat, jelly, 
wine and bread — a whole basketful I Then the meester sent a man 
from town with more wine, and a fine bed and blankets for the 
father. Oh I he will get well now. God bless them!” 

“God bless them!” echoed Hans, and for the first time that day, his 
eyes filled with tears. 



T hat evening Raff Brinker felt so much better that he in- 
sisted upon sitting up awhile on the rough, high-backed 
chair by the fire. For a few moments there was quite a com- 
motion in the little cottage. Hans was all-important on the occa- 
sion, for his father was a heavy man, and needed something firm to 
lean upon. The dame, though none of your fragile ladies, was in 
such a state of alarm and excitement at the bold step they were tak- 
ing in lifting him without the meester’s orders, that she came near 
pulling her husband over, even while she believed herself to be his 
main prop and support. 

“Steady, vrouw, steady,” panted Raff, “have I grown old and 
feeble, or is it the fever makes me thus helpless?” 

“Hear the man!” laughed Dame Brinker, “talking like any other 
Christian. Why you’re weak from the fever. Raff. Here’s the 
chair, all fixed snug and warm; now, sit thee down — hi-di-didy — 
there we are!” 

With these words. Dame Brinker let her half of the burden settle 
slowly into the chair. Hans prudently did the same. 

Meanwhile Gretel flew about generally, bringing every possible 
thing to her mother to tuck behind the father’s back and spread over 
his knees. Then she twitched the carved bench under his feet, and 
Hans kicked the fire to make it brighter. 

The father was “sitting up” at last. What wonder that he looked 
about him like one bewildered. “Little Hans” had just been almost 
carrying him. “The baby” was over four feet long, and was de- 

194 





HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 195 

murely brushing up the hearth with a bundle of willow wisps. 
Meitje, the vrouw, winsome and fair as ever, had gained at least 
fifty pounds in what seemed to him a few hours. She also had some 
new lines in her face that puzzled him. The only familiar things 
in the room were the pine table that he had made before he 
was married, the Bible upon the shelf, and the cupboard in the 
corner. 

Ah! Raff Brinker, it was only natural that your eyes should fill 
with hot tears even while looking at the joyful faces of your loved 
ones. Ten years dropped from a man’s life are no small loss; ten 
years of manhood, of household happiness and care; ten years of 
honest labor, of conscious enjoyment of sunshine and out-door beauty, 
ten years of grateful life — One day looking forward to all this; the 
next, waking to find them passed, and a blank. What wonder the 
scalding tears dropped one by one upon your cheek! 

Tender little Gretel! The prayer of her life was answered 
through those tears. She loved her father from that moment. Hans 
and his mother glanced silently at each other when they saw her 
spring towards him, and throw her arms about his neck. 

‘‘Father, dear father,” she whispered, pressing her cheek close to 
his, “don’t cry. We are all here.” 

“God bless thee,” sobbed Raff, kissing her again and again, “I had 
forgotten that!” 

Soon he looked up again, and spoke in a cheerful voice : “I should 
know her, vrouw,” he said, holding the sweet young face between 
his hands, and gazing at it as though he were watching it grow. “I 
should know her. The same blue eyes, and the lips, and, ah! me, 
the little song she could sing almost before she could stand. But 
that was long ago,” he added, with a sigh, still looking at her dream- 
ily, “long ago, it’s all gone now.” 

“Not so, indeed,” cried Dame Brinker, eagerly. “Do you think 
I would let her forget it? Gretel, child, sing the old song thou hast 
known so long!” 

Raff Brinker’s hand fell wearily and his eyes closed, but it was 
something to see the smile playing about his mouth, as Gretel’s voice 
floated about him like incense. 

It was a simple air; she had never known the words. 


196 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

With loving instinct she softened every note, until Raff almost 
fancied that his two-year-old baby was once more beside him. 

As soon as the song was finished, Hans mounted a wooden stool 
and began to rummage in the cupboard. 

“Have a care, Hans,” said Dame Brinker, who through all her 
poverty was ever a tidy housewife. “Have a care, the wine is there 
at your right, and the white bread beyond it.” 

“Never fear, mother,” answered Hans, reaching far back on an 
upper shelf, “I shall do no mischief.” 

Jumping down, he walked toward his father, and placed an ob- 
long block of pine-wood in his hands. One of its ends was rounded 
off, and some deep cuts had been made on the top. 

“Do you know what it is, father?” asked Hans. 

Raff Brinker’s face brightened. “Indeed I do, boy, it is the boat 
I was making you yest — alack, not yesterday, but years ago.” 

“I have kept it ever since, father; it can be finished when your 
hand grows strong again.” 

“Yes, but not for you, my lad. I must wait for the grandchildren. 
Why, you are nearly a man. Have you helped your mother, boy, 
through all these years?” 

“Aye, and bravely,” put in Dame Brinker. 

“Let me see,” muttered the father, looking in a puzzled way at 
them all, “how long is it since the night when the waters were coming 
in? ’Tis the last I remember.” 

“We have told thee true. Raff. It was ten years last Pinxter- 
week.” 

“Ten years — and I fell then, you say. Has the fever been on me 
ever since?” 

Dame Brinker scarce knew how to reply. Should she tell him all? 
Tell him that he had been an idiot, almost a lunatic? The doctor 
had charged her on no account to worry or excite his patient. 

Hans and Gretel looked astonished when the answer came. 

“Like enough. Raff,” she said, nodding her head, and raising her 
eyebrows, “when a heavy man like thee falls on his head, it’s hard to 
say what will come^ — but thou’rt well now, Raff. Thank the good 
Lord!” 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 197 

The newly-awakened man bowed his head. 

“Aye, well enough, mine vrouw,” he said, after a moment’s silence, 
“but my brain turns somehow like a spinning-wheel. It will not be 
right till I get on the dykes again. When shall I be at work, think 
you?” 

“Hear the man!” cried Dame Brinker delighted, yet frightened, 
too, for that matter; “we must get him on the bed, Hans. Work in- 
deed!” 

They tried to raise him from the chair — but he was not ready yet. 

“Be off with ye!” he said, with something like his old smile (Gretel 
had never seen it before) ; “does a man want to be lifted about like 
a log? I tell you before three suns I shall be on the dykes again. 
Ah! there’ll be some stout fellows to greet me. Jan Kamphuisen and 
young Hoogsvliet. They have been good friends to thee, Hans, I’ll 
warrant.” 

Hans looked at his mother. Young Hoogsvliet had been dead 
five years. Jan Kamphuisen was in the jail at Amsterdam. 

“Aye, they’d have done their share no doubt,” said Dame Brinker, 
parrying the inquiry, “had we asked them. But what with working 
and studying, Hans has been busy enough without seeking comrades.” 

“Working and studying,” echoed Raff, in a musing tone, “can the 
youngsters read and cipher, Meitje?” 

“You should hear them!” she answered proudly. “They can run 
through a book while I mop the floor. Hans, there, is as happy over 
a page of big words as a rabbit in a cabbage patch — as for cipher- 
ing—” 

“Here, lad, help a bit,” interrupted Raff Brinker, “I must get me 
on the bed again.” 

None seeing the humble supper eaten in the Brinker cottage that 
night, would have dreamed of the dainty fare hidden away near by. 
Hans and Gretel looked rather wistfully toward the cupboard as 
they drank their cupful of water and ate their scanty share of black 
bread ; but even in thought they did not rob their father. 

“He relishes his supper well,” said Dame Brinker nodding side- 
wise toward the bed, “and fell asleep the next moment — Ah, the dear 
man will be feeble for many a day. He wanted sore to sit up again, 
but while I made show of humoring him, and getting ready, he 


198 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

dropt off. Remember that, my girl, when you have a man of your 
own (and many a day may it be before that comes to pass), remem- 
ber you can never rule by differing; ‘humble wife is husband’s boss — ’ 
Tut! tut! never swallow such a mouthful as that again, child; why 
I could make a meal off of two such pieces. What’s in thee, Hans? 
One would think there were cobwebs on the wall.” 

“Oh, no, mother, I was only thinking — ” 

“Thinking, about what? Ah, no use asking,” she added in a 
changed tone, “I was thinking of the same a while ago — well, well 
— It’s no blame if we did look to hear something by this time about 
the thousand guilders; but, not a word — no — it’s plain enough he 
knows naught about them.” 

Hans looked up anxiously, dreading lest his mother should grow 
agitated, as usual, when speaking of the lost money; but she was 
silently nibbling her bread and looking with a doleful stare toward 
the window. 

“Thousand guilders,” echoed a faint voice from the bed. “Ah, 
I am sure they have been of good use to you, vrouw, through the long 
years while your man was idle.” 

The poor woman started up. These words quite destroyed the 
hope that of late had been glowing within her. 

“Are you awake. Raff?” she faltered. 

“Yes, Meitje, and I feel much better. Our money was well saved, 
vrouw, I was saying. Did it last through all those ten years?” 

“I — I — have not got it. Raff, I” — She was going to tell him the 
whole truth, when Hans lifted his finger warningly and whispered: 

“Remember what the meester told us ; the father must not be wor- 
ried.” 

“Speak to him, child,” she answered, trembling. 

Hans hurried to the bed-side. 

“I am glad you are feeling better,” he said, leaning over his father, 
“another day will see you quite strong again.” 

“Aye, like enough. How long did the money last, Hans? I 
could not hear your mother. What did she say?” 

“I said. Raff,” stammered Dame Brinker in great distress, “that it 
was all gone.” 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 199 

“Well, well, wife, do not fret at that; one thousand guilders is not 
so very much for ten years, and with children to bring up ; but it has 
helped to make you all comfortable. Have you had much sickness 
to bear?” 

“N — no,” sobbed Dame Brinker lifting her apron to her eyes. 

“Tut — tut, woman, why do you cry?” said Raff, kindly, “we will 
soon fill another pouch, when I am on my feet again. Lucky I told 
you all about it before I fell.” 

“Told me what, man?” 

“Why, that I buried the money. In my dream just now, it seemed 
I had never said aught about it.” 

Dame Brinker started forward. Hans caught her arm. 

“Hist! mother,” he whispered, hastily leading her away, “we must 
be very careful.” Then while she stood with clasped hands waiting 
in breathless anxiety, he once more approached the cot. Trembling 
with eagerness he said: 

“That was a troublesome dream. Do you remember when you 
buried the money, father?” 

“Yes, my boy. It was just before daylight on the same day I was 
hurt. Jan Kamphuisen said something, the sundown before, that 
made me distrust his honesty. He was the only one living besides 
mother who knew we had saved a thousand guilders — so I rose up that 
night and buried the money — blockhead that I was ever to suspect an 
old friend!” 

“I’ll be bound, father,” pursued Hans in a laughing voice, motion- 
ing to his mother and Gretel to remain quiet — “that you’ve forgotten 
where you buried it.” 

“Ha! ha! not I, indeed — but good-night, my son, I can sleep 
again.” 

Hans would have walked away, but his mother’s gestures were not 
to be disobeyed — so he said gently: 

“Good-night, father. Where did you say you buried the money? 
I was only a little one then.” 

“Close by the willow sapling behind the cottage,” said Raff Brinker 
drowsily. 

“Ah, yes. North side of the tree, wasn’t it, father?” 


200 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

*‘No, the south side. Ah, you know the spot well enough, you 
rogue — like enough you were there when your mother lifted it. 
Now, son — easy — shift this pillow — so. Good-night.” 

“Good-night, father 1” said Hans, ready to dance for joy. 

The moon rose very late that night, shining in, full and clear, at 
the little window; but its beams did not disturb Raff Brinker. He 
slept soundly, so did Gretel. As for Hans and his mother, they had 
something else to do. 

After making a few hurried preparations, they stole forth with 
bright expectant faces, bearing a broken spade and a rusty imple- 
ment that had done many a day’s service when Raff was a hale worker 
on the dykes. 

It was so light out of doors they could see the willow tree dis- 
tinctly. The frozen ground was hard as stone, but Hans and his 
mother were resolute. Their only dread was that they might disturb 
the sleepers in the cottage. 

“This ysbreeker is just the thing, mother,” said Hans, striking 
many a vigorous blow — “but the ground has set so firm it’ll be a fair 
match for it.” 

“Never fear, Hans,” she answered, watching him eagerly, “here, 
let me try awhile.” 

They soon succeeded in making an impression; one opening, and 
the rest was not so difficult. 

Still they worked on, taking turns and whispering cheerily to one 
another. Now and then Dame Brinker stepped noiselessly over the 
threshold and listened, to be certain that her husband slept. 

“What grand news it will be for him,” she said, laughing, “when 
he is strong enough to bear it. How I should like to put the pouch 
and the stocking, just as we find them, all full of money, near him 
this blessed night, for the dear man to see when he wakens.” 

“We must get them, first, mother,” panted Hans, still tugging away 
at his work. 

“There’s no doubt of that. They can’t slip away from us, now,” 
she answered, shivering with cold and excitement, as she crouched 
besides the opening. “Like enough we’ll find them stowed in the 
old earthen pot I lost long ago.” 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 201 

By this time Hans, too, began to tremble, but not with cold. He 
had penetrated a foot deep for quite a space on the south side of the 
tree. At any moment they might come upon the treasure. 

Meantime the stars winked and blinked at each other as if to say, 
‘‘Queer country, this Holland I How much we do see to be sure I” 

“Strange that the dear father should have put it down so woeful 
deep,” said Dame Drinker, in rather a provoked tone. “Ah, the 
ground was soft enough then I warrant' How wise of him to mis- 
trust Jan Kamphuisen, and Jan in full credit at the time. Little I 
thought that handsome fellow with his gay ways would ever go to 
jail! Now, Hans, let me take a turn — it’s lighter work, d’ye see? 
the deeper we go. I’d be loath to kill the tree, Hans — ^will we harm 
it, think you?” 

“I cannot say,” he answered, gravely. 

Hour after hour, mother and son worked on. The hole grew 
larger and deeper. Clouds began to gather in the sky, throwing 
elfish shadows as they passed. Not until moon and stars faded away 
and streaks of daylight began to appear, did Meitje Brinker and 
Hans look hopelessly into each other’s face. 

They had searched thoroughly, desperately, all round the tree; 
South, North, East, West. The hidden money was not there! 



A nnie BOUMAN had a healthy distaste for Janzoon Kolp. 
Janzoon Kolp, in his own rough way, adored Annie. Annie 
declared she could not “to save her life” say one civil word 
to that odious boy. Janzoon believed her to be the sweetest, sauciest 
creature in the world. Annie laughed among her playmates at the 
comical flapping of Janzoon’s tattered and dingy jacket; he sighed 
in solitude over the floating grace of her jaunty blue petticoat. She 
thanked her stars that her brothers were not like the Kolps; and he 
growled at his sister because she was not like the Boumans. They 
seemed to exchange natures whenever they met. His presence made 
her harsh and unfeeling; and he the very sight of her made him gen- 
tle as a lamb. Of course they were thrown together very often. It is 
thus that in some mysterious way we are convinced of error and cured 
of prejudice. In this case, however, the scheme failed. Annie de- 
tested Janzoon more and more at each encounter; and Janzoon liked 
her better and better every day. 

“He killed a stork, the wicked old wretch!” she would say to her- 
self. 

“She knows I am strong and fearless,” thought Janzoon. 

“How red and freckled and ugly he is!” was Annie’s secret com- 
ment when she looked at him. 

“How she stares, and stares!” thought Janzoon. “Well, I am a 
fine, weather-beaten fellow, anyway.” 

“Janzoon Kolp, you impudent boy, go right away from me!” Annie 
often said, “I don’t want any of your company.” 

202 



“Good-morrow, Annie Bouman.” 



204 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

“Ha! ha!” laughed Janzoon to himself, “girls never say v/hat they 
mean. I’ll skate with her every chance I can get.” 

And so it came to pass that the pretty maid would not look up that 
morning when, skating homeward from Amsterdam, she became con- 
vinced that a great burly boy was coming down the canal, toward 
her. 

“Humph! if I look at him,” thought Annie, “I’ll — ” 

“Good-morrow, Annie Bouman,” said a pleasant voice. 

(How a smile brightens a girl’s face!) 

“Good-morrow, Master Hans, I am right glad to meet you.” 

(How a smile brightens a boy’s face!) 

“Good-morrow, again, Annie. There has been a great change at 
our house since you left.” 

“How so?” she exclaimed, opening her eyes very wide. 

Hans, who had been in a great hurry, and rather moody, grew 
talkative and quite at leisure in Annie’s sunshine. Turning about, 
and skating slowly with her towards Broek, he told the good news of 
his father. Annie was so true a friend that he told her even of their 
present distress, of how money was needed, and how everything de- 
pended upon his obtaining work, and he could find nothing to do in 
the neighborhood. 

All this was not said as a complaint, but just because she was look- 
ing at him, and really wished to know. He could not speak of last 
night’s bitter disappointment for that secret was not wholly his own. 

“Good-by, Annie!” he said at last. “The morning is going fast, 
and I must haste to Amsterdam and sell these skates. Mother must 
have money at once. Before nightfall I shall certainly find a job 
somewhere.” 

“Sell your new skates, Hans!” cried Annie, “you, the best skater 
around Broek! Why the race is coming off in five days!” 

“I know it,” he answered resolutely. “Good-by! I shall skate 
home again on the old wooden ones.” 

Such a bright glance! So different from Janzoon’s ugly grin — 
and Hans was off like an arrow. 

“Hans! come back,” she called. 

Her voice changed the arrow into a top. Spinning around, he 
darted, in one long, leaning sweep, toward her. 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 205 

“Then you really are going to sell your new skates if you can find 
a customer.’’ 

“Of course I am,” he replied, looking up with a surprised smile. 

“Well, Hans, if you are going to sell your skates,” said Annie, 
somewhat confused, “I mean if you — Well, I know somebody who 
would like to buy them — that’s all.” 

“Not Janzoon Kolp?” asked Hans, flushing. 

“Oh, no,” she pouted, “he is not one of my friends.” 

“But you know him,” persisted Hans. 

Annie laughed. “Yes, I know him, and it’s all the worse for him 
that I do. Now please, Hans, don’t ever talk any more to me about 
Janzoon. I hate him!” 

“Hate him! you hate anyone, Annie?” 

She shook her head saucily. “Yes; and I’ll hate you too, if you 
persist in calling him one of my friends. You boys may like him 
because he caught the greased goose at the Kermis last Summer, 
and climbed the pole with his great, ugly body tied up in a sack, 
but I don’t care for such things. I’ve disliked him ever since I saw 
him try to push his little sister out of the merry-go-round at Am- 
sterdam ; and it’s no secret up our way who killed the stork on your 
mother’s roof. But we mustn’t talk about such a bad, wicked fel- 
low. Really, Hans, I know somebody who would be glad to buy 
your skates. You won’t get half a price for them in Amsterdam. 
Please give them to me. I’ll take you the money this very after- 
noon.” 

If Annie was charming even when she said “hate,” there was no 
withstanding her when she said “please” ; at least Hans found it to 
be so. 

“Annie,” he said, taking off the skates, and rubbing them carefully 
with a snarl of twine before handing them to her, “I am sorry to be 
so particular; but if your friend should not want them, will you bring 
them back to me to-day? I must buy peat and meal for the mother 
early to-morrow morning.” 

“My friend will want them,” laughed Annie, nodding gayly, and 
skating off at the top of her speed. 

As Hans drew forth the wooden “runners” from his capacious 
pockets and fastened them on as best he could, he did not hear Annie 


2o6 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

murmur, “I wish I had not been so rude; poor, brave Hans; what a 
noble boy he is!” And as Annie skated homeward filled with pleas- 
ant thoughts, she did not hear Hans say, “I grumbled like a bear — 
but bless her! some girls are like angels!” 

Perhaps it was all for the best. One cannot be expected to know 
everything that is going on in the world. 

Luxuries unfit us for returning to hardships easily endured before. 
The wooden runners squeaked more than ever. It was as much as 
Hans could do to get on with the clumsy old things; still he did not 
regret that he had parted with his beautiful skates — but resolutely 
pushed back the boyish trouble that he had not been able to keep them 
just a little longer, at least until after the race. 

Mother surely will not be angry with me, he thought, for selling 
them without her leave. She has had care enough already. It will 
be full time to speak of it when I take home the money. 

Hans went up and down the streets of Amsterdam that day, look- 
ing for work. He succeeded in earning a few stivers by assisting a 
man who was driving a train of loaded mules into the city, but he 
could not secure steady employment anywhere. He would have been 
glad to obtain a situation as porter or errand-boy, but though he 
passed on his way many a loitering, shuffling urchin, laden with bun- 
dles, there was no place for him. Some shopkeepers had just sup- 
plied themselves ; others needed a trimmer, more lightly-built fellow 
(they meant better dressed, but did not choose to say so) ; others told 
him to call again in a month or two, when the canals would probably 
be broken up ; and many shook their heads at him without saying a 
word. 

At the factories he met with no better luck. It seemed to him that 
in those great buildings, turning out respectively such tremendous 
quantities of woolen, cotton and linen stuffs, such world-renowned 
dyes and paints, such precious diamonds cut from the rough, such 
supplies of meal, of bricks, of glass and china — that in at least one 
of these, a strong-armed boy, able and eager to work, could find some- 
thing to do. But no — nearly the same answer met him everywhere, 
‘‘no need of more hands just now. If he had called before Nicholas’ 
day they might have given him a job, as they were hurried then ; but 
at present they had more boys than they needed.” Hans wished they 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 207 

could see, just for a moment, his mother and Gretel. He did not 
know how the anxiety of both looked out from his eyes, and how 
more than once, the gruffest denials were uttered with an uncomfor- 
table consciousness that the lad ought not to be turned away. Cer- 
tain fathers when they went home that night, spoke more kindly than 
usual to their own youngsters, from memory of a frank, young face 
saddened at their words ; and before morning one man actually re- 
solved that if the Broek boy came in again he would instruct his head 
man Blankert to set him at something. 

But Hans knew nothing of all this. Toward sundown he started 
on his return to Broek, uncertain whether the strange, choking sen- 
sation in his throat arose from discouragement or resolution. There 
was certainly one more chance. Mynheer van Holp might have re- 
turned by this time. Master Peter it was reported had gone to Haar- 
lem the night before, to attend to something connected with the great 
Skating Race. Still Hans would go and try. 

Fortunately, Peter had returned early that morning. He was at 
home when Hans reached there, and was just about starting for the 
B tinker cottage. 

“Ah, Hans !” he cried as the weary boy approached the door. “You 
are the very one I wished to see. Come in and warm yourself.” 

After tugging at his well-worn hat, which always would stick to 
his head when he was embarrassed, Hans knelt down — not by way 
of making a new style of oriental salute — nor to worship the god- 
dess of cleanliness who presided there — but because his heavy shoes 
would have filled the soul of a Broek housewife with horror. When 
their owner stepped softly into the house, they were left outside to act 
as sentinels until his return. 


Hans left the Van Holp mansion with a lightened heart. Peter 
had brought word from Haarlem that young Brinker was to com- 
mence working upon the summer-house doors immediately. There 
was a comfortable workshop on the place and it was to be at his serv- 
ice until the carving was done. 

Peter did not tell Hans that he had skated all the way to Haarlem 
for the purpose of arranging this plan with Mynheer van Holp. It 


2o8 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

was enough for him to see the glad, eager look rise on young Brin- 
ker’s face. 

“I think I can do it,” said Hans, “though I have never learned the 
trade.” 

“I am sure you can,” responded Peter, heartily. “You will find 
every tool you require in the workshop. It is nearly hidden yonder 
by that wall of twigs. In Summer when the hedge is green, one 
cannot see the shop from here at all. How is your father to-day?” 

“Better, mynheer — he improves every hour.” 

“It is the most astonishing thing I ever heard of. That gruff old 
doctor is a great fellow after all.” 

“Ay I mynheer,” said Hans, warmly, “he is more than great. He 
is good. But for the meester’s kind heart and great skill my poor 
father would yet be in the dark. I think, mynheer,” he added, with 
kindling eyes, “surgery is the very noblest science in the world!” 

Peter shrugged his shoulders. “Very noble it may be, but not quite 
to my taste. This Doctor Boekman certainly has skill. As for his 
heart — defend me from such hearts as his!” 

“Why do you say so, mynheer?” asked Hans. 

Just then a lady slowly entered from an adjoining apartment. It 
was Mevrouw van Holp arrayed in the grandest of caps, and the 
longest of satin aprons ruffled with lace. She nodded placidly as 
Hans stepped back from the fire bowing as well as he knew how. 

Peter at once drew a high-backed oaken chair toward the fire, and 
the lady seated herself. There was a block of cork on each side of 
the chimney place. One of these he placed under his mother’s feet. 

Hans turned to go. 

“Wait a moment, if you please, young man,” said the lady. “I 
accidentally overheard you and my son speaking I think of my friend 
Doctor Boekman. You are right, young man. Doctor Boekman 
has a very kind heart. You perceive, Peter, we may be quite mis- 
taken in judging of a person solely by their manners, though a courte- 
ous deportment is by no means to be despised.” 

“I intended no disrespect, mother,” said Peter, “but surely one has 
no right to go growling and snarling through the world, as they say he 
does.” 

“They say. Ah, Peter, ‘they’ means everybody or nobody. Sur- 










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HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 209 

geon Boekman has had a great sorrow. Many years ago he lost his 
only child, under very painful circumstances, a fine lad, except that 
he was a thought too hasty and high spirited. Before then Gerard 
Boekman was one of the most agreeable gentlemen I ever knew.” 

So saying, Mevrouw van Holp, looking kindly upon the two boys, 
arose and left the room with the same dignity with which she had en- 
tered. 

Peter, only half convinced, muttered something about “the sin of 
allowing sorrow to turn all one’s honey into gall,” as he conducted 
his visitor to the narrow side-door. Before they parted, he advised 
Hans to keep himself in good skating order, “for,” he added, “now 
that your father is all right, you will be in fine spirits for the race. 
That will be the prettiest skating show ever seen in this part of the 
world. Everybody is talking of it; you are to try for the prize, re- 
member.” 

“I shall not be in the race, mynheer,” said Hans, looking down. 

“Not in the racel Why not indeed?” and immediately Peter’s 
thoughts swept on a full tide of suspicion towards Carl Schummel. 

“Because I cannot, mynheer,” answered Hans, as he bent to slip 
his feet into his big shoes. 

Something in the boy’s manner warned Peter that it would be no 
kindness to press the matter further. He bade Hans “good-by,” and 
stood thoughtfully watching him as he walked away. 

In a minute Peter called out; 

“Hans Brinkerl” 

“Yes, mynheer.” 

“I’ll take back all I said about Doctor Boekman.” 

“Yes, mynheer.” 

Both were laughing. But Peter’s smile changed to a look of puz- 
zled surprise when he saw Hans kneel down by the canal and put on 
the wooden skates. 

“Very queer,” muttered Peter, shaking his head as he turned to go 
into the house, “why in the world don’t the boy wear his new ones?” 

The sun had gone down quite out of sight when our hero — ^with a 
happy heart but with something like a sneer on his countenance, as he 
jerked off the wooden “runners” — trudged hopefully toward the tiny 
hut-like building, known of old as the Idiot’s cottage. 


210 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

Duller eyes than his would have discerned two slight figures mov- 
ing near the door-way. 

That gray, well-patched jacket and the dull blue skirt covered with 
an apron of still duller blue, that faded, close-fitting cap, and those 
quick little feet in their great boat-like shoes, they were Gretel’s of 
course. He would have known them an)rwhere. 

That bright coquettish red jacket, with its pretty skirt, bordered 
with black, that graceful cap bobbing over the gold ear-rings, that 
dainty apron, and those snug leather shoes that seemed to have grown 
with the feet — Why if the Pope of Rome had sent them to him by 
express, Hans could have sworn they were Annie’s. 

The two girls were slowly pacing up and down in front of the cot- 
tage. Their arms were entwined, of course, and their heads were 
nodding and shaking as emphatically as if all the affairs of the king- 
dom were under discussion. 

With a joyous shout, Hans hastened toward them^ 

“Huzza, girls. I’ve found workl” 

This brought his mother to the cottage door. 

She, too, had pleasant tidings. The father was still improving. 
He had been sitting up nearly all day, and was now sleeping as Dame 
Brinker declared, “just as quiet as a lamb.” 

“It is my turn now, Hans,” said Annie, drawing him aside after 
he had told his mother the good word from Mynheer van Holp. 
“Your skates are sold and here’s the money.” 

“Seven guilders!” cried Hans, counting the pieces in astonish- 
ment, “why that is three times as much as I paid for them.” 

“I cannot help that,” said Annie. “If the buyer knew no better, 
it is not our fault.” 

Hans looked up quickly. 

“Oh, Annie!” 

“Oh, Hans!” she mimicked, pursing her lips, and trying to look 
desperately wicked and unprincipled. 

“Now, Annie, I know you would never mean that! You must re- 
turn some of this money.” 

“But I’ll not do any such thing,” insisted Annie, “they’re sold, and 
that’s an end of it,” then seeing that he looked really pained she added 
in a lower tone: 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 211 

“Will you believe me, Hans, when I say that there has been no 
mistake — that the person who bought your skates insisted upon pay- 
ing seven guilders for them?” 

“I will,” he answered — and the light from his clear blue eyes 
seemed to settle and sparkle under Annie’s lashes. 

Dame Brinker was delighted at the sight of so much silver, but 
when she learned that Hans had parted with his treasures to obtain 
it, she sighed, as she exclaimed: 

“Bless thee, child! That will be a sore loss for thee!” 

“Here, mother,” said the boy, plunging his hands far into his 
pocket, “here is more — we shall be rich if we keep on!” 

“Aye, indeed,” she answered, eagerly reaching forth her hand. 
Then, lowering her voice, added, “we would be rich but for that Jan 
Kamphuisen. He was at the willow tree years ago, Hans — depend 
upon it!” 

“Indeed, it seems likely,” sighed Hans, “well, mother, w^e must give 
up the money bravely. It is certainly gone, the father has told us all 
he knows. Let us think no more about it.” 

“That’s easy saying, Hans. I shall try, but it’s hard ; and my poor 
man wanting so many comforts. Bless me! How girls fly about. 
They were here but this instant. Where did they run to?” 

“They slipped behind the cottage,” said Hans, “like enough to hide 
from us. Hist! I’ll catch them for you! They both can move 
quicker and softer than yonder rabbit, but I’ll give them a good start 
first.” 

“Why there is a rabbit, sure enough. Hold, Hans, the poor thing 
must have been in sore need to venture from its burrow this bitter 
weather. I’ll get a few crumbs for it within.” 

So saying, the good woman bustled into the cottage. She soon came 
out again, but Hans had forgotten to wait, and the rabbit after taking 
a cool survey of the premises had scampered off to unknown quar- 
ters. 

Turning the corner of the cottage. Dame Brinker came upon the 
children. Hans and Gretel were standing before Annie who was 
seated carelessly upon a stump. 

“That is as good as a picture!” cried Dame Brinker, halting in ad- 
miration of the group. “Many a painting have I seen at the grand 


212 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

house at Heidelberg not a whit prettier. My two are rough chubs, 
Annie, but you look like a fairy.” 

“Do I?” laughed Annie, sparkling with animation, “well then, 
Gretel and Hans, imagine I’m your godmother just paying you a 
visit. Now I’ll grant you each a wish. What will you have, Master 
Hans?” 

A shade of earnestness passed over Annie’s face as she looked up 
at him — perhaps it was because she wished from the depths of her 
heart that for once she could have a fairy’s power. 

Something whispered to Hans that, for the moment, she was more 
than mortal. 

“I wish,” said he, solemnly, “I could find something I was search- 
ing for last night?” 

Gretel laughed merrily. Dame Brinker moaned “Shame on you, 
Hans!” and passed wearily into the cottage. 

The fairy godmother sprang up and stamped her foot three times. 

“Thou shalt have thy wish,” said she, “let them say what they 
will.” Then with playful solemnity, she put her hand in her apron 
pocket and drew forth a large glass bead. “Bury this,” said she, giv- 
ing it to Hans, “where I have stamped, and ere moonrise thy wish 
shall be granted.” 

Gretel laughed more merrily than ever. 

The godmother pretended great displeasure. 

“Naughty child,” said she, scowling terribly. “In punishment 
for laughing at a fairy, thy wish shall not be granted.” 

“Hal” cried Gretel in high glee, “better wait till you’re asked, 
godmother. I haven’t made any wish!” 

Annie acted her part well. Never smiling, through all their 
merry laughter, she stalked away, the embodiment of offended dignity. 

“Good-night, fairy!” they cried again and again. 

“Good-night, mortals!” she called out at last as she sprang over 
a frozen ditch, and ran quickly homeward. 

“Oh, isn’t she — just like flowers — so sweet and lovely!” cried 
Gretel, looking after her in great admiration, “and to think how 
many days she stays in that dark room with her grandmother — ^Why, 
brother Hans ! What is the matter? What are you going to do?” 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 213 

“Wait and seel” answered Hans as he plunged into the cottage 
and came out again, all in an instant, bearing the spade and ysbreeker 
in his hands— “I’m going to bury my magic beadl” 

Raff Brinker still slept soundly; his wife took a small block of 
peat from her nearly exhausted store, and put it upon the embers. 
Then opening the door, she called gently: 

“Come in, children.” 

“Mother! mother! See here!” shouted Hans. 

“Holy St. Bavon!” exclaimed the dame, springing over the door- 
step. “What ails the boy!” 

“Come quick, mother,” he cried, in great excitement, working 
with all his might, and driving in the ysbreeker at each word. 

“Don’t you see? This is the spot — right here on the south side of 
the stump. Why didn’t we think of it last night? The stump is the 
old willow-tree — the one you cut down last spring because it shaded 
the potatoes. That little tree wasn’t here when father — Huzza!” 

Dame Brinker could not speak. She dropt on her knees beside 
Hans just in time to see him drag forth — the old stone pot! 

He thrust in his hand and took out — a piece of brick — then an- 
other — then another — then, the stocking and the pouch, black and 
moldy, but filled with the long lost treasure! 

Such a time! Such laughing! Such crying! Such counting, 
after they went into the cottage! It was a wonder that Raff did not 
waken. His dreams were pleasant, however, for he smiled in his 
sleep. 

Dame Brinker and her children had a fine supper I can assure 
you. No need of saving the delicacies now. 

“We’ll get father some nice fresh things, to-morrow,” said the 
dame, as she brought forth cold meat, wine, bread and jelly, and 
placed them on the clean pine table. “Sit by, children, sit by.” 

That night, Annie fell asleep wondering whether it was a knife 
Hans had lost, and thinking how funny it would be if he should find 
it, after all. 

Hans had scarce closed his eyes, before he found himself trudging 


214 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES / 

through a thicket; pots of gold were lying all around, and watches, 
and skates, and glittering beads were swinging from every branch. 

Strange to say, each tree, as he approached it, changed into a 
stump, and on the stump sat the prettiest fairy imaginable, clad in a 
scarlet jacket, and blue petticoat. 



Mysterious 

Watch 

Chapter XX 


S OMETHING else than the missing guilders was brought to 
light on the day of the fairy godmother’s visit. This was the 
story of the watch that for ten long years had been so jealously 
guarded by Raff’s faithful vrouw. Through many an hour of 
sore temptation she had dreaded almost to look upon it, lest she 
might be tempted to disobey her husband’s request. It had been 
hard to see her children hungry and to know that the watch if sold, 
would enable the roses to bloom in their cheeks again — “but nay,” 
she would exclaim, “Meitje Brinker is not one to forget her man’s 
last bidding, come what may.” 

“Take good care of this, mine vrouw,” he had said, as he handed 
it to her — that was all. No explanation followed, for the words 
were scarcely spoken, when one of his fellow workmen rushed into 
the cottage, crying, “Come, man! the waters are rising! you’re 
wanted on the dykes.” 

Raff had started at once, and that, as Dame Brinker had already 
told you, was the last she saw of him in his right mind. 

On the day when Hans was in Amsterdam looking for work, and 
Gretel, after performing her household labors, was wandering about 
in search of chips, twigs — anything that could be burned. Dame 
Brinker with suppressed excitement had laid the watch in her hus- 
band’s hand. 

“It wasn’t in reason,” as she afterwards said to Hans, “to wait any 
longer, when a word from the father would settle all; no woman 
living but would want to know how he came by that watch.” Raff 

215 


2i6 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

Brinker turned the bright, polished thing over and over in his hand — • 
then he examined the bit of smoothly ironed black ribbon fastened to 
it; he seemed hardly to recognize it. At last he said, “Ah, I remem- 
ber thisl Why, you’ve been rubbing it, vrouw, till it shines like a 
new guilder.” 

“Aye,” said Dame Brinker, nodding her head complacently. 

Raff looked at it again. “Poor boy I” he murmured, then fell into 
a brown study. 

This was too much for the dame. “Poor boy I” she echoed, some- 
what tartly. “What do you think I’m standing here for. Raff 
Brinker, and my spinning a-waiting, if not to hear more than that?” 

“I told ye all, long since,” said Raff, positively, as he looked up in 
surprise. 

“Indeed, and you never didl” retorted the vrouw. 

“Well, if not — since it’s no affair of ours — we’ll say no more about 
it,” said Raff, shaking his head sadly; “like enough while I’ve been 
dead on the earth, all this time, the poor boy’s died and been in 
Heaven. He looked near enough to it, poor lad!” 

“Raff Brinker! If you’re going to treat me this way, and I nursing 
you and bearing with you since I was twenty-two years old, it’s a 
shame! aye, and a disgrace,” cried the vrouw growing quite red, and 
scant of breath. 

Raff’s voice was feeble yet, “Treat you, what way, Meitje?” 

“What way,” said Dame Brinker, mimicking his voice and man- 
ner, “what way? why just as every woman in the world is treated after 
she’s stood by a man through the worst, like a — ” 

“Meitje!” 

Raff was leaning forward, with outstretched arms. His eyes were 
full of tears. 

In an instant Dame Brinker was at his feet, clasping his hands in 
hers. 

“Oh ! what have I done! Made my good man cry, and he not back 
with me four days! Look up. Raff! nay. Raff, my own boy, I’m 
sorry I hurt thee. It’s hard not to be told about the watch after 
waiting ten years to know — but I’ll ask thee no more. Raff. Here, 
we’ll put the thing away that’s made the first trouble between us, 
after God just giving thee back to me.” 



“Had he done any wrong, think ye?” 


2i8 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

“I was a fool to cry, Meitje,” he said, kissing her, “and it’s no more 
than right ye should know the truth. But it seemed like it might 
be telling the secrets of the dead to talk about the matter.” 

“Is the man — the lad — thou wert talking of dead, think thee?” 
asked the vrouw, hiding the watch in her hand, but seating herself 
expectantly on the end of his long foot-bench. 

“It’s hard telling,” he answered. 

“Was he so sick. Raff?” 

“No, not sick, I may say; but troubled, vrouw, very troubled.” 

“Had he done any wrong, think ye?” she asked, lowering her voice. 

Raff nodded. 

^‘Murder?'^ whispered the wife, not daring to look up. 

“He said it was like to that, indeed.” 

“Ohl Raff, you frighten me — tell me more — you speak so strange 
— and you tremble. I must know all.” 

“If I tremble, mine vrouw, it must be from the fever. There is no 
guilt on my soul, thank God!” 

“Take a sip of this wine. Raff. There, now you are better. It 
was like to a crime you were saying.” 

“Aye, Meitje, like to murder; that he told me himself. But I’ll 
never believe it. A likely lad, fresh and honest looking as our own 
youngster, but with something not so bold and straight about him.” 

“Aye, I know,” said the dame, gently, fearing to interrupt the 
story. 

“He came upon me quite sudden,” continued Raff. “I had never 
seen his face before, the palest, frightenest face that ever was. He 
caught me by the arm, ‘You look like an honest man,’ says he.” 

“Aye, he was right in that,” interrupted the dame, emphatically. 

Raff looked somewhat bewildered. 

“Where was I, mine vrouw?” 

“The lad took hold of your arm. Raff,” she said, gazing at him 
anxiously. 

“Aye, so. The words come awkward to me, and everything is half 
like a dream, ye see.” 

“S-stutl What wonder, poor man,” sighed the dame, stroking his 
hand. “If ye had not head enough for a dozen, the wit would never 
have come to ye again. Well, the lad caught ye by the arm, and 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 219 

said ye looked honest (well he mightl). What then? Was it noon- 
time?” 

“Nay; before daylight — long before early chimes.” 

“It was the same day you were hurt,” said the dame. “I know it 
seemed you went to your work in the middle of the night. You left 
off, where he caught your arm. Raff.” 

“Yes,” resumed her husband — “and I can see his face this min- 
ute — so white and wild looking. ‘Take me down the river a way,’ 
says he. I was working then, you’ll remember, far down on the 
line, across from Amsterdam. I told him I was no boatman. ‘It’s 
an affair of life and death,’ says he, ‘take me on a few miles — yonder 
skiff is not locked, but it may be a poor man’s boat and I’d be loath 
to rob him!’ (The words might differ some, vrouw, for it’s all like 
a dream.) Well, I took him down; it might be six or eight miles, 
and then he said he could run the rest of the way on shore. I was 
in haste to get the boat back. Before he jumped out, he says, sob- 
bing-like, ‘I can trust you. I’ve done a thing — God knows I never 
intended it — but the man is dead. I must fly from Holland.’ ” 

“What was it, did he say. Raff? Had he been shooting at a com- 
rade, like they do down at the University at Gottingen?” 

“I can’t recall that. Mayhap he told me; but it’s all like a dream. 
I said it wasn’t for me, a good Hollander, to cheat the laws of my 
country by helping him off that way; but he kept saying, ‘God knows 
I am innocent!’ and looked at me in the starlight as fair, now, 
and clear-eyed as our little Hans might — and I just pulled away 
faster.” 

“It must have been Jan Kamphuisen’s boat,” remarked Dame 
Brinker, dryly, “none other would have left his oars out that care- 
less.” 

“Aye — it was Jan’sd^oat sure enough. The man will be coming 
in to see me Sunday, likely, if he’s heard ; and young Hoogsvliet too. 
Where was I?” 

[It was lucky the dame restrained herself. To have spoken at 
all of Jan after the last night’s cruel disappointment, would have 
been to have let out more sorrow and suspicion than Raff could 
bear.] 

“Where were you? Why not very far, forsooth — the lad hadn’t 


220 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

yet given ye the watch — alack I misgive whether he came by it hon- 
estly!” 

“Why, vrouw,” exclaimed Raff in an injured tone, “he was dressed 
soft and fine as the prince himself. The watch was his own, clear 
enough.” 

“How came he to give it up?” asked the dame, looking uneasily at 
the fire, for it needed another block of peat. 

“I told ye just now,” he answered with a puzzled air. 

“Tell me again,” said Dame Brinker, wisely warding off another 
digression. 

“Well, just before jumping from the boat, he says, handing me the 
watch, ‘I’m flying from my country as I never thought I could. I’ll 
trust you because you look honest. Will you take this to my father — 
not to-day, but in a week, and tell him his unhappy boy sent it; and 
tell him if ever the time comes that he wants me to come back to him. 
I’ll brave everything and come. Tell him to send a letter to — to’ — 
there the rest is all gone from me. I can't remember where the let- 
ter was to go. Poor lad! poor lad,” resumed Raff, sorrowfully, tak- 
ing the watch from his vrouw’s lap, as he spoke — “and it’s never been 
sent to his father to this day.” 

“I’ll take it. Raff, never fear — the moment Gretel gets back. She 
will be in soon. What was the father’s name did you say? Where 
were you to find him?” 

“Alack!” answered Raff, speaking very slowly, “It’s all slipped 
me. I can see the lad’s face, and his great eyes, just as plain — and 
I remember his opening the watch, and snatching something from it 
and kissing it — but no more. All the rest whirls past me; there’s a 
kind of sound like rushing waters comes over me when I try to 
think.” 

“Aye. That’s plain to see. Raff; but I’ve had the same feeling 
after a fever. You’re tired now — I must get ye straight on the bed 
again. Where is the child, I wonder?” 

Dame Brinker opened the door, and called, “Gretel! Gretel!” 

“Stand aside, vrouw,” said Raff, feebly, as he leaned forward, and 
endeavored to look out upon the bare landscape, “I’ve half a mind to 
stand beyond the door just once.” 

“Nay, nay,” she laughed, “I’ll tell the meester how ye tease, and 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 221 

fidget and bother to be let out in the air; and, if he says it, I’ll bundle 
ye warm to-morrow, and give ye a turn on your feet. But I’m 
freezing you with this door open. I declare if there isn’t Gretel with 
her apron full, skating on the canal, like wild. Why, man,” she con- 
tinued almost in a scream, as she slammed the door, “thou’rt walking 
to the bed without my touching thee I Thou’lt fall I” 

The dame’s “thee” proved her mingled fear and delight, even 
more than the rush which she made toward her husband. Soon he 
was comfortably settled under the new cover, declaring as his vrouw 
tucked him in snug and warm, that it was the last daylight that should 
see him abed. 

“Ayel I can hope it myself,” laughed Dame Brinker, “now you 
have been frisking about at that rate.” As Raff closed his eyes, the 
dame hastened to revive her fire, or rather to dull it, for Dutch peat 
is like a Dutchman, slow to kindle, but very good at a blaze when 
once started. Then putting her neglected spinning-wheel away, she 
drew forth her knitting from some invisible pocket and seated her- 
self by the bedside. 

“If you could remember that man’s name. Raff,” she began cau- 
tiously, “I might take the watch to him, while you’re sleeping; Gretel 
can’t but be in soon.” 

Raff tried to think; but in vain. 

“Could it be Boomphoffen,” suggested the dame. “I’ve heard 
how they’ve had two sons turn out bad — Gerard and Lambert?” 

“It might be,” said Raff, “look if there’s letters on the watch, 
that’ll guide us some.” 

“Bless thee, man,” cried the happy dame, eagerly lifting the watch, 
“why thou’rt sharper than ever! Sure enough. Here’s letters! 
L. J. B. That’s Lambert Boomphoffen you may depend, what the 
J is for I can’t say; but they used to be grand kind o’ people, high- 
feathered as fancy fowl. Just the kind to give their children all 
double names, which isn’t Scripture anyway.” 

“I don’t know about that, vrouw. Seems to me there’s long mixed 
names in the Holy Book, hard enough to make out. But you’ve got 
the right guess at a jump. It was your way always,” said Raff, 
closing his eyes, “take the watch to Boompkinks and try.” 

“Not Boompkinks, I know no such name; it’s Boomphoffen.” 


222 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

“Aye, take it there.” 

“Take it there, man! why the whole brood of ’em’s been gone to 
America these four years. But go to sleep, Raff; you look pale and 
out of strength. It’ll all come to you, what’s best to do, in the morn- 
ing. 

“So, Mistress Gretell Here you are at last!” 

Before Raff awoke that evening, the fairy godmother, as we know, 
had been at the cottage, the guilders were once more safely locked 
in the big chest, and Dame Brinker and the children were faring 
sumptuously on meat and white bread and wine. 

So the mother, in the joy of her heart, told them the story of the 
watch as far as she deemed it prudent to divulge it. It was no more 
than fair, she thought, that the poor things should know, after keep- 
ing the secret so safe, ever since they had been old enough to know 
anything. 

The next sun brought a busy day to the Brinkers. 

In the first place the news of the thousand guilders had of course 
to be told to the father. Such tidings as that surely could not harm 
him. Then while Gretel was diligently obeying her mother’s in- 
junction to “clean the place fresh as a new brewing,” Hans and the 
dame sallied forth to revel in the purchasing of peat and provisions. 

Hans was careless and contented; the dame was filled with delight- 
ful anxieties caused by the unreasonable demands of ten thousand 
guilders’ worth of new wants that had sprung up like mushrooms in 
a single night. The happy woman talked so largely to Hans on their 
way to Amsterdam, and brought back such little bundles after all, 
that he scratched his bewildered head as he leaned against the chim- 
ney-piece, wondering whether, “bigger the pouch, tighter the string” 
was in Jacob Cats, and therefore true, or whether he had dreamed it 
when he lay in a fever. 

“What thinking on. Big-eyes?” chirruped his mother, half read- 
ing his thoughts as she bustled about, preparing the dinner, 
“What thinking on? Why, Raff, would ye believe it, the child 
thought to carry half Amsterdam back on his head. Bless us! he 
would have bought as much coffee as would have filled this fire- 
pot; ‘no — no — my lad,’ says I, ‘no time for leaks when the ship is rich 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 223 

laden’ — and then how he stared — aye — just as he stares this minute. 
Hoot lad! fly around a mite. Ye’ll grow to the chimney-place with 
your staring and wondering. Now, Raff, here’s your chair at the 
head of the table, where it should be, for there’s A MAN to the house 
now — I’d say it to the king’s face. Aye, that’s the way — lean on 
Hans; there’s a strong staff for you! growing like a weed too, and it 
seems only yesterday since he was toddling. Sit by, my man, sit by.” 

“Can you call to mind, vrouw,” said Raff, settling himself cau- 
tiously in the big chair, “the wonderful music-box that cheered your 
working in the big house at Heidelberg?” 

“Aye, that I can,” answered the dame, “three turns of a brass key, 
and the witchy thing would send the music fairly running up and 
down one’s back — I remember it well — but Raff” (growing solemn 
in an instant) , “you would never throw our guilders away for a thing 
like that?” 

“No, no, not I, vrouw — for the good Lord has already given me 
a music-box without pay.” 

All three cast quick, frightened glances at one another and at Raff 
— were his wits on the wing again? 

“Aye, and a music-box that fifty pouch-full would not buy from 
me,” insisted Raff; “and it’s set going by the turn of a mop handle, 
and it slips and glides around the room, ever3rwhere in a flash, car- 
rying the music about till you’d swear the birds were back again.” 

“Holy St. Bavon!” screeched the dame, “what’s in the man?” 

“Comfort and joy, vrouw, that’s what’s in him! Ask Gretel, ask 
my little music-box Gretel, if your man has lacked comfort and joy 
this day.” 

“Not he, mother,” laughed Gretel. “He’s been my music-box, too. 
We sang together half the time you were gone.” 

“Aye, so,” said the dame, greatly relieved. “Now, Hans, you’ll 
never get through with a piece like that; but never mind, chick, 
thou’st had a long fasting; here, Gretel, take another slice of the 
sausage, it’ll put blood in your cheeks.” 

“Oh! Oh! mother,” laughed Gretel, eagerly holding forth her 
platter, “blood don’t grow in girls’ cheeks — you mean roses — isn’t it 
roses, Hans?” 

While Hans was hastily swallowing a mammoth mouthful in or- 


224 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

der to give a suitable reply to this poetic appeal, Dame Brinker 
settled the matter with a quick : 

“Well, roses or blood, it’s all one to me, so the red finds its way on 
your sunny face. It’s enough for mother to get pale and weary- 
looking, without — ” 

“Hoot, vrouw,” spoke up Raff hastily, “thou’rt fresher and rosier 
this minute than both our chicks put together.” 

This remark though not bearing very strong testimony to the clear- 
ness of Raff’s newly awakened intellect, nevertheless afforded the 
dame intense satisfaction ; the meal accordingly passed off in the most 
delightful manner. 

After dinner, the affair of the watch was talked over, and the mys- 
terious initials duly discussed. 

Hans had just pushed back his stool, intending to start at once for 
Mynheer van Holp’s, and his mother had risen to put the watch away 
in its old hiding place, when they heard the sound of wheels upon the 
frozen ground. 

Someone knocked at the door, opening it at the same time. 

“Come in,” stammered Dame Brinker hastely trying to hide the 
watch in her bosom. “Oh! is it you, mynheer! Good-day, the 
father is nearly well, as you see. It’s a poor place to greet you in, 
mynheer, and the dinner not cleared away.” 

Dr. Boekman scarcely noticed the dame’s apology. He was evi- 
dently in haste. 

“Ahem !” he exclaimed, “not needed here, I perceive. The patient 
is mending fast.” 

“Well he may, mynheer,” cried the dame, “for only last night we 
found a thousand guilders that’s been lost to us these ten years.” 

Dr. Boekman opened his eyes. 

“Yes, mynheer,” said Raff. “I bid the vrouw tell you, though 
it’s to he held a secret among us, for I see you can keep your lips 
closed as well as any man.” 

The doctor scowled. He never liked personal remarks. 

“Now, mynheer,” continued Raff, “you can take your rightful 
pay. God knows you have earned it, if bringing such a poor tool 
back to the world, and his family, can be called a service. Tell the 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 225. 

vrouw what’s to pay, mynheer; she will hand out the sum right will- 
ingly.” 

“Tut! tut!” said the doctor kindly, “say nothing about money. I 
can find plenty of such pay any time, but gratitude comes seldom. 
That boy’s ‘thank you,’ ” he added, nodding side-wise towards Hans, 
“was pay enough for me.” 

“Like enough ye have a boy of your own,” said Dame Brinker, 
quite delighted to see the great man becoming so sociable. 

Doctor Boekman’s good-nature vanished at once. He gave a 
growl (at least, it seemed so to Gretel) , but made no actual reply. 

“Do not think the vrouw meddlesome, mynheer,” said Raff, “she 
has been sore touched of late about a lad whose folks have gone away, 
none know where; and I had a message for them from the young 
gentleman.” 

“The name was Boomphoffen,” said the dame eagerly. “Do you 
know aught of the family, mynheer?” 

The doctor’s reply was brief and gruff. 

“Yes. A troublesome set. They went long since to America.” 

“It might be. Raff,” persisted Dame Brinker, timidly, “that the 
meester knows somebody in that country, though I’m told they are 
mostly savages over there. If he could get the watch to the Boom- 
phoffens with the poor lad’s message, it would be a most blessed 
thing.” 

“Tut! vrouw, why pester the good meester and dying men and 
women wanting him ever5rwhere. How do ye know ye have the true 
name?” 

“I’m sure of it,” she replied. “They had a son Lambert, and 
there’s an L for Lambert and a B for Boomphoffen, on the back; 
though to be sure there’s an odd T too, but the meester can look for 
himself.” 

So saying, she drew forth the watch. 

“L. J. B.!” cried Doctor Boekman springing toward her. 

Why attempt to describe the scene that followed! I need only say 
that the lad’s message was delivered to his father at last — delivered 
while the great surgeon was sobbing like a little child. 

“Laurens! my Laurens!” he cried, gazing with yearning eyes at 


226 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

the watch as he held it tenderly in his palm. “Ah, if I had but known 
sooner! Laurens a homeless wanderer — Great Heaven! he may be 
suffering, dying at this moment! Think, man, where is he? Where 
did my boy say the letter must be sent?” 

Raff shook his head sadly. 

“Think!” implored the doctor. Surely the memory so lately awak- 
ened through his aid could not refuse to serve him in a moment like 
this. 

“It is all gone, mynheer,” sighed Raff. 

Hans, forgetting distinctions of rank and station, forgetting every- 
thing but that his good friend was in trouble, threw his arms around 
the doctor’s neck. 

“I can find your son, mynheer. If alive, he is somewhere. The 
earth is not so very large, I will devote every day of my life to the 
search. Mother can spare me, now. You are rich, mynheer; send 
me where you will.” 

Gretel began to cry. It was right for Hans to go; but how could 
they ever live without him? 

Doctor Boekman made no reply, neither did he push Hans away. 
His eyes were fixed anxiously upon Raff Brinker. Suddenly he 
lifted the watch, and with trembling eagerness attempted to open it. 
Its stiffened spring yielded at last; the case flew open, disclosing a 
watch-paper in the back bearing a group of blue forget-me-nots. 
Raff, seeing a shade of intense disappointment pass over the doctor’s 
face, hastened to say: 

“There was something else in it, mynheer, but the young gentleman 
tore it out before he handed it to me. I saw him kiss it as he put it 
away.” 

“It was his mother’s picture,” moaned the doctor, “she died when 
he was ten years old. Thank God ! the boy had not forgotten. Both 
dead? It is impossible!” he cried, starting up. “My boy is alive. 
You shall hear his story. Laurens acted as my assistant. By mis- 
take he portioned out the wrong medicine for one of my patients — 
a deadly poison — but it was never administered, for I discovered the 
error in time. The man died that day. I was detained with other 
bad cases until the next evening. When I reached home, my boy was 
gone. Poor Laurens!” sobbed the doctor, breaking down com- 



“Shall I take the watch?” 





228 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

pletely, “never to hear from me through all these years. His mes- 
sage disregarded. Oh, what must he have suffered!” 

Dame Brinker ventured to speak. Anything was better than to 
see the meester cry. 

“It is a mercy to know the young gentleman was innocent. Ah! 
how he fretted ! Telling you, Raff, that his crime was like unto mur- 
der. It was sending the wrong physic he meant. Crime indeed! 
why our own Gretel might have done that! Like enough the poor 
young gentleman heard that the man was dead — that’s why he ran, 
mynheer. He said, you know. Raff, that he never could come back 
to Holland again, unless” — she hesitated — “ah, your honor, ten years 
is a dreary time to be waiting to hear from — ” 

“His, vrouw!” said Raff sharply. 

“Waiting to hear,” groaned the doctor, “and I, like a fool sitting 
stubbornly at home, thinking he had abandoned me. I never 
dreamed, Brinker, that the boy had discovered the mistake. I be- 
lieved it was youthful folly — ingratitude — love of adventure, that 
sent him away. My poor, poor Laurens!” 

“But you know all, now, mynheer,” whispered Hans. “You know 
he was innocent of wrong, that he loved you and his dead mother. 
We will find him. You shall see him again, dear meester.” 

“God bless you!” said Dr. Boekman, seizing the boy’s hand, “it 
may be as you say. I shall try — I shall try — and, Brinker, if ever the 
faintest gleam of recollection concerning him should come to you, 
you will send me word at once?” 

“Indeed we will!” cried all but Hans, whose silent promise would 
have satisfied the doctor even had the others not spoken. 

“Your boy’s eyes,” he said, turning to Dame Brinker, “are strangely 
like my son’s. The first time I met him it seemed that Laurens him- 
self was looking at me.” 

“Aye, mynheer,” replied the mother proudly. “I have marked 
that you were much drawn to the child.” 

For a few moments the meester seemed lost in thought; then, arous- 
ing himself, he spoke in a new voice: 

“Forgive me. Raff Brinker, for this tumult. Do not feel dis- 
tressed on my account. I leave your house to-day a happier man than 
I have been for many a long year. Shall I take the watch?” 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 229 

“Certain you must, mynheer. It was your son’s wish.” 

“Even so,” responded the doctor — regarding his treasure with a 
queer frown, for his face could not throw off its bad habits in an 
hour — “even so. And, now, I must be gone. No medicine is 
needed by my patient; only peace and cheerfulness, and both are here 
in plenty. Heaven bless you, my good friends! I shall ever be 
grateful to you.” 

“May Heaven bless you, too, mynheer, and may you soon find the 
dear young gentleman,” said Dame Brinker earnestly, after hurriedly 
wiping her eyes upon the corner of her apron. 

Raff uttered a hearty “Amen!” and Gretel threw such a wistful, 
eager glance at the doctor, that he patted her head as he turned to 
leave the cottage. 

Hans went out also. 

“When I can serve you, mynheer, I am ready.” 

“Very well, boy,” replied Doctor Boekman with peculiar mildness. 
“Tell them, within, to say nothing of what has just passed. Mean- 
time, Hans, when you are with your father, watch his mood. You 
have tact. At any moment he may suddenly be able to tell us more.” 

“Trust me for that, mynheer.” 

“Good-day, my boy!” cried the doctor, as he sprang into his stately 
coach. 

“Aha!” thought Hans, as it rolled away, “the meester has more life 
in him than I thought.” 



HE twentieth of December came at last, bringing with it 



the perfection of Winter weather. All over the level land- 


scape lay the warm sunlight. It tried its power on lake, 
canal and river; but the ice flashed defiance and showed no sign of 
melting. The very weather-cocks stood still to enjoy the sight. 
This gave the windmills a holiday. Nearly all the past week they 
had been whirling briskly; now, being rather out of breath, they 
rocked lazily in the clear, still air. Catch a windmill working when 
the weather-cocks have nothing to do! 

There was an end to grinding, crushing and sawing for that day. 
It was a good thing for the millers near Broek. Long before noon 
they concluded to take in their sails, and go to the race. Everybody 
would be there — already the north side of the frozen Y was bordered 
with eager spectators; the news of the great skating match had 
traveled far and wide. Men, women and children in holiday attire 
were flocking toward the spot. Some wore furs, and wintry cloaks 
or shawls; but many, consulting their feelings rather than the 
almanac, were dressed as for an October day. 

The site selected for the race was a faultless plain of ice near 
Amsterdam, on that great arm of the Zuider Zee which Dutchmen 
of course must call — the eye. The townspeople turned out in large 
numbers. Strangers in the city deemed it a fine chance to see what 
was to be seen. Many a peasant from the northward had wisely 
chosen the twentieth as the day for the next city-trading. It seemed 


230 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 231 

that everybody, young and old, who had wheels, skates or feet at 
command, had hastened to the scene. 

There were the gentry in their coaches, dressed like Parisians, 
fresh from the Boulevards ; Amsterdam children in charity uniforms ; 
girls from the Roman Catholic orphan house, in sable gowns and 
white headbands; boys from the Burgher Asylum, with their black 
tights and short-skirted, harlequin coats.^ There were old-fash- 
ioned gentlemen in cocked hats and velvet knee breeches; old-fash- 
ioned ladies, too, in stiff, quilted skirts and bodies of dazzling bro- 
cade. These were accompanied by servants bearing foot-stoves and 
cloaks. There were the peasant folk arrayed in every possible 
Dutch costume — Shy young rustics in brazen buckles; simple village 
maidens concealing their flaxen hair under fillets of gold; women 
whose long, narrow aprons were stiff with embroidery; women with 
short, corkscrew curls hanging over their foreheads; women with 
shaved heads and close-fitting caps, and women in striped skirts and 
windmill bonnets. Men in leather, in homespun, in velvet and 
broadcloth; burghers in model European attire, and burghers in 
short jackets, wide trousers and steeple-crowned hats. 

There were beautiful Friesland girls in wooden shoes and coarse 
petticoats, with solid gold crescents encircling their heads, finished 
at each temple with a golden rosette, and hung with lace a century 
old. Some wore necklaces, pendants and ear-rings of the purest 
gold. Many were content with gilt or even with brass, but it is not 
an uncommon thing for a Friesland woman to have all the family 
treasure in her head-gear. More than one rustic lass displayed the 
value of two thousand guilders upon her head that day. 

Scattered throughout the crowd were peasants from the Island of 
Marken, with sabots, black stockings, and the widest of breeches; 
also women from Marken with short blue petticoats, and black jack- 
ets, gayly figured in front. They wore red sleeves, white aprons, and 
a cap like a bishop’s miter over their golden hair. 

iThis is not said in derision. Both the girls and boys of this Institution wear garments 
quartered in red and black, alternately. By making the dress thus conspicuous, the children 
are, in a measure, deterred from wrongdoing while going about the city. The Burgher Orphan 
Asylum aflFords a comfortable home to several hundred boys and girls. Holland is famous 
for its charitable institutions. 


232 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

The children often were as quaint and odd-looking as their eld- 
ers. In short, one-third of the crowd seemed to have stepped 
bodily from a collection of Dutch paintings. 

Everywhere could be seen tall women, and stumpy men, lively 
faced girls, and youths whose expression never changed from sun- 
rise to sunset. 

There seemed to be at least one specimen from every known town 
in Holland. There were Utrecht water-bearers, Gouda cheese 
makers. Delft pottery-men, Schiedam distillers, Amsterdam diamond- 
cutters, Rotterdam merchants, dried up herring-packers, and two 
sleepy-eyed shepherds from Texel. Every man of them had his 
pipe and tobacco-pouch. Some carried what might be called the 
smoker’s complete outfit — a pipe, tobacco, a pricker with which to 
clean the tube, a silver net for protecting the bowl and a box of the 
strongest of brimstone matches. 

A true Dutchman, you must remember, is rarely without his pipe 
on any possible occasion. He may for a moment neglect to breathe, 
but when the pipe is forgotten, he must be dying, indeed. There 
were no such sad cases here. Wreaths of smoke were rising from 
every possible quarter. The more fantastic the smoke wreath, the 
more placid and solemn the smoker. 

Look at those boys and girls on stilts! That is a good idea. They 
can see over the heads of the tallest. It is strange to see those little 
bodies high in the air, carried about on mysterious legs. They have 
such a resolute look on their round faces, what wonder that nervous 
old gentlemen, with tender feet, wince and tremble while the long- 
legged little monsters stride past them. 

You will read in certain books that the Dutch are a quiet people 
— so they are generally — but listen; did ever you hear such a din? 
All made up of human voices — no, the horses are helping somewhat, 
and the fiddles are squeaking pitifully (how it must pain fiddles to 
be tuned!), but the mass of the sound comes from the great vox 
humana that belongs to a crowd. 

That queer little dwarf going about with a heavy basket, winding 
in and out among the people, helps not a little. You can hear his 
shrill cry above all the other sounds, “Pypen en tabac! Pypen en 
tabac !” 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 233 

Another, his big brother, though evidently some years younger, 
is selling doughnuts and bonbons. He is calling on all pretty chil- 
dren far and near to come quickly or the cakes will be gone. 

You know quite a number among the spectators. High up in yon- 
der pavilion, erected upon the border of the ice, are some persons 
whom you have seen very lately. In the center is Madame van 
Gleck. It is her birthday, you remember; she has the post of honor. 
There is Mynheer van Gleck whose meerschaum has not really 
grown fast to his lips — it only appears so. There are grandfather 
and grandmother whom you met at the St. Nicholas fete. All the 
children are with them. It is so mild they have brought even the 
baby. The poor little creature is swaddled very much after the man- 
ner of an Egyptian mummy, but it can crow with delight, and when 
the band is playing, open and shut its animated mittens in perfect 
time to the music. 

Grandfather with his pipe and spectacles and fur-cap, makes quite 
a picture as he holds baby upon his knee. Perched high upon their 
canopied platforms, the party can see all that is going on. No won- 
der the ladies look complacently at the glassy ice; with a stove for a 
footstool one might sit cozily beside the North Pole. 

There is a gentleman with them who somewhat resembles St. 
Nicholas as he appeared to the young Van Glecks, on the fifth of 
December. But the saint had a flowing white beard; and this face 
is as smooth as a pippin. His saintship was larger around the body, 
too, and (between ourselves) he had a pair of thimbles in his mouth, 
which this gentleman certainly has not. It cannot be Saint Nicholas 
after all. 

Near by, in the next pavilion sit the Van Holps with their son and 
daughter (the Van Gends) from the Hague. Peter’s sister is not one 
to forget her promises. She has brought bouquets of exquisite hot- 
house flowers for the winners. 

These pavilions, and there are others besides, have all been erected 
since daylight. That semi-circular one, containing Mynheer Korbes’ 
family, is very pretty, and proves that the Hollanders are quite skilled 
at tent-making, but I like the Van Glecks’ best— the center one — 
striped red and white, and hung with evergreens. 

The one with the blue flags contains the musicians. Those 


234 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

padoga-like affairs, decked with sea-shells and streamers of every 
possible hue, are the judges’ stands, and those columns and flag-staffs 
upon the ice mark the limit of the race-course. The two white 
columns twined with green, connected at the top by that long, float- 
ing strip of drapery, form the starting-point. Those flag-staffs, half 
a mile off, stand at each end of the boundary line, cut sufficiently 
deep to be distinct to the skaters, though not enough so to trip them 
when they turn to come back to the starting-point. 

The air is so clear it seems scarcely possible that the columns and 
flag-staffs are so far apart. Of course the judges’ stands are but lit- 
tle nearer together. 

Half a mile on the ice, when the atmosphere is like this, is but a 
short distance after all, especially when fenced with a living chain of 
spectators. 

The music has commenced. How melody seems to enjoy itself in 
the open airl The fiddles have forgotten their agony, and everything 
is harmonious. Until you look at the blue tent it seems that the 
music springs from the sunshine, it is so boundless, so joyous. Only 
when you see the staid-faced musicians you realize the truth. 

Where are the racers? All assembled together near the white 
columns. It is a beautiful sight. Forty boys and girls in pictur- 
esque attire darting with electric swiftness in and out among each 
other, or sailing in pairs and triplets, beckoning, chatting, whisper- 
ing in the fullness of youthful glee. 

A few careful ones are soberly tightening their straps; others halt- 
ing on one leg, with flushed, eager faces suddenly cross the suspected 
skate over their knee, give it an examining shake, and dart off again. 
One and all are possessed with the spirit of motion. They cannot 
stand still. Their skates are a part of them, and every runner seems 
bewitched. 

Holland is the place for skaters after all. Where else can nearly 
every boy and girl perform feats on the ice that would attract a crowd 
if seen on Central Park? Look at Ben! I did not see him before. 
He is really astonishing the natives; no easy thing to do in the Neth- 
erlands. Save your strength, Ben, you will need it soon. Now 
other boys are trying! Ben is surpassed already. Such jumping, 
such poising, such spinning, such india-rubber exploits generally! 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 235 

That boy with a red cap is the lion now; his back is a watch-spring, 
his body is cork — no, it is iron, or it would snap at that I He’s a bird, 
a top, a rabbit, a corkscrew, a sprite, a fish-ball all in an instant. 
When you think he’s erect he is down ; and when you think he is down 
he is up. He drops his glove on the ice and turns a somersault as 
he picks it up. Without stopping, he snatches the cap from Jacob 
Foot’s astonished head and claps it back again “hind side before.” 
Lookers-on hurrah and laugh. Foolish boy I It is Arctic weather 
under your feet, but more than temperate overhead. Big drops al- 
ready are rolling down your forehead. Superb skater, as you are, 
you may lose the race. 

A French traveler, standing with a note-book in his hand, sees ouf 
English friend, Ben, buy a doughnut of the dwarf’s brother, and eat 
it. Thereupon he writes in his note-book, that the Dutch take enor- 
mous mouthfuls, and universally are fond of potatoes boiled in mo- 
lasses. 

There are some familiar faces near the white columns. Lambert, 
Ludwig, Peter and Carl are all there, cool and in good skating or- 
der. Hans is not far off. Evidently he is going to join in the race, 
for his skates are on — the very pair that he sold for seven guilders! 
He had soon suspected that his fairy godmother was the mysterious 
“friend” who bought them. This settled, he had boldly charged her 
with the deed, and she knowing well that all her little savings had 
been spent in the purchase, had not had the face to deny it. Through 
the fairy godmother, too, he had been rendered amply able to buy 
them back again. Therefore Hans is to be in the race. Carl is more 
indignant than ever about it, but as three other peasant boys have en- 
tered, Hans is not alone. 

Twenty boys and twenty girls. The latter by this time are standing 
in front, braced for the start, for they are to have the first “run.” 
Hilda, Rychie and Katrinka are among them — two or three bend 
hastily to give a last pull at their skate-straps. It is pretty to see them 
stamp, to be sure that all is firm. Hilda is speaking pleasantly to 
a graceful little creature in a red jacket and a new brown petticoat. 
Why, it is Gretel! What a difference those pretty shoes make, and 
the skirt, and the new cap. Annie Bouman is there too. Even Jan- 
zoon Kolp’s sister has been admitted — but Janzoon himself has been 


236 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

voted out by the directors, because he killed the stork, and only last 
Summer was caught in the act of robbing a bird’s nest, a legal offense 
in Holland. 

This Janzoon Kolp, you see, was — There, I cannot tell the story 
just now. The race is about to commence. 

Twenty girls are formed in a line. The music has ceased. 

A man, whom we shall call the Crier, stands between the columns 
and the first judges’ stand. He reads the rules in a loud voice : 
“The girls and boys are to race in turn, until one girl and 

ONE BOY HAS BEATEN TWICE. ThEY ARE TO START IN A LINE FROM 
THE UNITED COLUMNS— SKATE TO THE FLAG-STAFF LINE, TURN, AND 
THEN COME BACK TO THE STARTING-POINT; THUS MAKING A MILE 
AT EACH RUN.” 

A flag is waved from the judges’ stand. Madame van Gleck rises 
in her pavilion. She leans forward with a white handkerchief in 
her hand. When she drops it, a bugler is to give the signal for them 
to start. 

The handkerchief is fluttering to the ground. Hark! 

They are off! 

No. Back again. Their line was not true in passing the judges’ 
stand. 

The signal is repeated. 

Off again. No mistake this time. Whew! how fast they go! 

The multitude is quiet for an instant, absorbed in eager, breathless 
watching. 

Cheers spring up along the line of spectators. Huzza! five girls 
are ahead. Who comes flying back from the boundary mark? We 
cannot tell. Something red, that is all. There is a blue spot flitting 
near it, and a dash of yellow nearer still. Spectators at this end of 
the line strain their eyes and wish they had taken their post nearer the 
flag-staff. 

The wave of cheers is coming back again. Now we can see! Ka- 
trinka is ahead! 

She passes the Van Holp pavilion. The next is Madame van 
deck’s. That leaning figure gazing from it is a magnet. Hilda 
shoots past Katrinka, waving her hand to her mother as she passes. 
Two others are close now, whizzing on like arrows. What is that 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 237 

flash of red and gray? Hurrah, it is Gretel! She too waves her 
hand, but toward no gay pavilion. The crowd is cheering, but 
she hears only her father’s voice, “Well done, little Gretell” Soon 
Katrinka, with a quick merry laugh shoots past Hilda. The girl 
in yellow is gaining now. She passes them all, all except Gretel. 
The judges lean forward without seeming to lift their eyes from their 
watches. Cheer after cheer fills the air; the very columns seem rock- 
ing. Gretel has passed them. She has won. 

“Gretel Brinker— one mile!”— shouts the crier. 

The judges nod. They write something upon a tablet which each 
holds in his hand. 

While the girls are resting — some crowding eagerly around our 
frightened little Gretel, some standing aside in high disdain — the 
boys form in a line. 

Mynheer van Gleck drops the handkerchief this time. The bu- 
gler gives a vigorous blast! 

The boys have started. 

Half way already! Did ever you see the like! 

Three hundred legs flashing by in an instant. But there are only 
tw^enty boys. No matter, there were hundreds of legs I am sure! 
Where are they now? There is such a noise one gets bewildered. 
What are the people laughing at? Oh, at that fat boy in the rear. 
See him go! See him! He’ll be down in an instant, no, he won’t. 
I wonder if he knows he is all alone; the other boys are nearly at 
the boundary line. Yes, he knows it. He stops! He wipes his 
hot face. He takes off his cap and looks about him. Better to give 
up with a good grace. He has made a hundred friends by that 
hearty, astonished laugh. Good Jacob Pool! 

The fine fellow is already among the spectators gazing as eagerly 
as the rest. 

A cloud of feathery ice flies from the heels of the skaters as they 
“bring to” and turn at the flag-staffs. 

Something black is coming now, one of the boys — it is all we know. 
He has touched the vox humana stop of the crowd, it fairly roars. 
Now they come nearer — we can see the red cap. There’s Ben — 
there’s Peter — there’s Hans! 

Hans is ahead! Young Madame van Gend almost crushes the 


238 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

flowers in her hand; she had been quite sure that Peter would be 
first. Carl Schummel is next, then Ben, and the youth with the 
red cap. The others are pressing close. A tall figure darts from 
among them. He passes the red cap, he passes Ben, then Carl. Now 
it is an even race between him and Hans. Madame van Gend 
catches her breath. 

It is Peter! He is ahead! Hans shoots past him. Hilda’s eyes 
fill with tears, Peter must beat. Annie’s eyes flash proudly. Gretel 
gazes with clasped hands — four strokes more will take her brother 
to the columns. 

He is there! Yes, but so was young Schummel just a second be- 
fore. At the last instant, Carl, gathering his powers, had whizzed 
between them and passed the goal. 

“Carl Schummel! one mile!” shouts the crier. 

Soon Madame van Gleck rises again. The falling handkerchief 
starts the bugle ; and the bugle, using its voice as a bow string, shoots 
off twenty girls like so many arrows. 

It is a beautiful sight, but one has not long to look; before we can 
fairly distinguish them they are far in the distance. This time they 
are close upon one another; it is hard to say as they come speeding 
back from the flag-staff which will reach the columns first. There 
are new faces among the foremost, — eager, glowing faces, unnoticed 
before. Katrinka is there, and Hilda, but Gretel and Rychie are in 
the rear. Gretel is wavering, but when Rychie passes her, she starts 
forward afresh. Now they are nearly beside Katrinka. Hilda is 
still in advance, she is almost “home.” She has not faltered since 
that bugle note sent her flying; like an arrow still she is speeding to- 
ward the goal. Cheer after cheer rises in the air. Peter is silent 
but his eyes shine like stars. “Huzza! Huzza!” 

The crier’s voice is heard again. 

“Hilda van Gleck, one mile!” 

A loud murmur of approval runs through the crowd, catching the 
music in its course, till all seems one sound, with a glad rhythmic 
throbbing in its depths. When the flag waves all is still. 

Once more the bugle blows a terrific blast. It sends off the boys 
like chaff before the wind — dark chaff I admit, and in big pieces. 

It is whisked around at the flag-staff, driven faster yet by the cheers 



‘‘Hilda van deck, one mile!” 



240 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

and shouts along the line. We begin to see what is coming. There 
are three boys in advance this time, and all abreast. Hans, Peter and 
Lambert. Carl soon breaks the ranks, rushing through with a whiff! 
Fly Hans, fly Peter, don’t let Carl beat again. Carl the bitter, Carl 
the insolent. Van Mounen is flagging, but you are strong as ever. 
Hans and Peter, Peter and Hans ; which is foremost? We love them 
both. We scarcely care which is the fleeter. 

Hilda, Annie and Gretel seated upon the long crimson bench, can 
remain quiet no longer. They spring to their feet — so different, and 
yet one in eagerness. Hilda instantly reseats hferself; none shall 
know how interested she is, none shall know how anxious, how filled 
with one hope. Shut your eyes then, Hilda — hide your face rippling 
with joy. Peter has beaten. 

“Peter van Holp, one mileI” calls the crier. 

The same buzz of excitement as before, while the judges take notes, 
the same throbbing of music through the din — but something is differ- 
ent. A little crowd presses close about some object, near the column. 
Carl, has fallen. He is not hurt, though somewhat stunned. If he 
were less sullen he would find more sympathy in these warm young 
hearts. As it is they forget him as soon as he is fairly on his feet 
again. 

The girls are to skate their third mile. 

How resolute the little maidens look as they stand in line! Some 
are solemn with a sense of responsibility, some wear a smile half 
bashful, half provoked, but one air of determination pervades them 
all. 

This third mile may decide the race. Still if neither Gretel nor 
Hilda win, there is yet a chance among the rest for the Silver Skates. 

Each girl feels sure that this time she will accomplish the distance 
in one half the time. How they stamp to try their runners, how 
nervously they examine each strap — how erect they stand at last, every 
eye upon Madame van Gleck! 

The bugle thrills through them again. With quivering eagerness 
they spring forward, bending, but in perfect balance. Each flashing 
stroke seems longer than the last. 

Now they are skimming off in the distance. 

Again the eager straining of eyes — again the shouts and cheering. 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 241 

again the thrill of excitement as, after a few moments, four or five, 
in advance of the rest, come speeding back, nearer, nearer to the white 
columns. 

Who is first? Not Rychie, Katrina, Annie, nor Hilda, nor the 
girl in yellow — but Gretel — Gretel, the fleetest sprite of a girl that 
ever skated. She was but playing in the earlier race, now she is in 
earnest, or rather something within her has determined to win. That 
lithe little form makes no effort; but it cannot stop — not until the 
goal is passed! 

In vain the crier lifts his voice — he cannot be heard. He has no 
news to tell — it is already ringing through the crowd. Gretel has 
won the Silver Skates! 

Like a bird she has flown over the ice, like a bird she looks about 
her in a timid, startled way. She longs to dart to the sheltered nook 
where her father and mother stand. But Hans is beside her — the 
girls are crowding round. Hilda’s kind, joyous voice breathes in her 
ear. From that hour, none will despise her. Goose-girl or not, 
Gretel stands acknowledged Queen of the Skaters! 

With natural pride Hans turns to see if Peter van Holp is wit- 
nessing his sister’s triumph. Peter is not looking toward them at all. 
He is kneeling, bending his troubled face low, and working hastily 
at his skate-strap. Hans is beside him at once. 

“Are you in trouble, mynheer?” 

“Ah, Hans! that you? Yes, my fun is over. I tried to tighten 
my strap — to make a new hole — and this botheration of a knife has 
cut it nearly in two.” 

“Mynheer,” said Hans, at’ the same time pulling off a skate — 
“you must use my strap !” 

“Not I, indeed, Hans Brinker,” cried Peter, looking up, “though 
I thank you warmly. Go to your post, my friend, the bugle will 
sound in a minute.” 

“Mynheer,” pleaded Hans in a husky voice. “You have called 
me your friend. Take this strap — quick! There is not an instant 
to lose. I shall not skate this time — indeed I am out of practice. 
Mynheer, you must take it,” — and Hans blind and deaf to any re- 
monstrance, slipped his strap into Peter’s skate and implored him to 
put it on. 


242 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

“Come, Peter!” cried Lambert, from the line, “we are waiting for 
you.” 

“For madame’s sake,” pleaded Hans, “be quick. She is motioning 
to you to join the racers. There, the skate is almost on ; quick, myn- 
heer, fasten it. I could not possibly win. The race lies between 
Master Schummel and yourself.” 

“You are a noble fellow, Hans!” cried Peter yielding at last. He 
sprang to his post just as the white handkerchief fell to the ground. 
The bugle sends forth its blast, loud, clear and ringing. 

Off go the boys! 

“Mine gott,” cries a tough old fellow from Delft. “They beat 
everything, these Amsterdam youngsters. See them!” 

See them, indeed! They are winged Mercuries every one of them. 
What mad errand are they on? Ah, I know; they are hunting Peter 
van Holp. He is some fleet-footed runaway from Olympus. Mer- 
cury and his troop of winged cousins are in full chase. They will 
catch him! Now Carl is the runaway — the pursuit grows furious — 
Ben is foremost! 

The chase turns in a cloud of mist. It is coming this way. Who 
is hunted now? Mercury himself. It is Peter, Peter van Holp; 
fly, Peter — Hans is watching you. He is sending all his fleetness, 
all his strength into your feet. Your mother and sister are pale with 
eagerness. Hilda is trembling and dare not look up. Fly, Peter! 
the crowd has not gone deranged, it is only cheering. The pursuers 
are close upon you! Touch the white column! It beckons — it is 
reeling before you — it — 

Huzza! Huzza! Peter has won the Silver Skates! 

“Peter van Holp!” shouted the crier. But who heard him? 
“Peter van Holp!” shouted a hundred voices, for he was the favorite 
boy of the place. Huzza! Huzza! 

Now the music was resolved to be heard. It struck up a lively air, 
then a tremendous march. The spectators, thinking something new 
was about to happen, deigned to listen and to look. 

The racers formed in single file. Peter, being tallest, stood first. 
Gretel, the smallest of all, took her place at the end. Hans, who had 
borrowed a strap from the cake-boy, was near the head. 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 243 

Three gayly twined arches were placed at intervals upon the river 
facing the Van Gleck pavilion. 

Skating slowly, and in perfect time to the music, the boys and girls 
moved forward, led on by Peter. It was beautiful to see the bright 
procession glide along like a living creature. It curved and 
doubled, and drew its graceful length in and out among the arches 
— whichever way Peter the head went, the body was sure to follow. 
Sometimes it steered direct for the center arch, then, as if seized 
with a new impulse, turned away and curled itself about the first one ; 
then unwound slowly and bending low, with quick, snakelike curv- 
ings, crossed the river, passing at length through the furthest arch. 

When the music was slow, the procession seemed to crawl like a 
thing afraid; it grew livelier, and the creature darted forward with 
a spring, gliding rapidly among the arches, in and out, curling, twist- 
ing, turning, never losing form until, at the shrill call of the bugle 
rising above the music, it suddenly resolved itself into boys and girls 
standing in double semi-circle before Madame van deck’s pavilion. 

Peter and Gretel stand in the center in advance of the others. 
Madame van Gleck rises majestically. Gretel trembles, but feels 
that she must look at the beautiful lady. She cannot hear what is 
said, there is such a buzzing all around her. She is thinking that 
she ought to try and make a courtesy, such as her mother makes to 
the meester, when suddenly something so dazzling is placed in her 
hand that she gives a cry of joy. 

Then she ventures to look about her. Peter, too, has something 
in his hands — “Ohl oh I how splendid 1” she cries, and “oh I how 
splendid!” is echoed as far as people can see. 

Meantime the silver skates flash in the sunshine, throwing dashes 
of light upon those two happy faces. 

Mevrouw van Gend sends a little messenger with her bouquets. 
One for Hilda, one for Carl, and others for Peter and Gretel. 

At sight of the flowers the Queen of the Skaters becomes uncon- 
trollable. With a bright stare of gratitude she gathers skates and 
bouquets in her apron — hugs them to her bosom, and darts off to 
search for her father and mother in the scattering crowd. 


[\\\\\ 

I 


Joy in the 
Cottage 

Iliii Chaoter XXII 


P erhaps you were surprised to learn that Raff and his vrouw 
were at the skating- race; you would have been more so had 
you been with them on the evening of that merry twentieth 
of December. To see the Brinker cottage standing sulkily alone 
on the frozen marsh, with its bulgy, rheumatic-looking walls, and its 
slouched hat of a roof pulled far over its eyes, one would never sus- 
pect that a lively scene was passing within. Without, nothing was 
left of the day but a low line of blaze at the horizon. A few venture- 
some clouds had already taken fire, and others, with their edges burn- 
ing, were lost in the gathering smoke. 

A stray gleam of sunshine slipping down from the willow stump, 
crept stealthily under the cottage. It seemed to feel that the inmates 
would give it welcome if it could only get near them. The room under 
which it hid was as clean as clean could be. The very cracks in the 
rafters were polished. Delicious odors filled the air. A huge peat 
fire upon the hearth sent flashes of harmless lightning at the somber 
walls. It played in turn upon the great leathern Bible, upon Gretel’s 
closet-bed, the household things on their pegs, and the beautiful Sil- 
ver Skates and the flowers upon the table. Dame Brinker’s honest 
face shone and twinkled in the changing light. Gretel and Hans, 
with arms entwined, were leaning against the fire-place, laughing 
merrily, and Raff Brinker was dancing! 

I do not mean that he was pirouetting or cutting a pigeon-wing, 
either of which would have been entirely too undignified for the 
father of a family; I simply affirm that while they were chatting 

244 




HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 245 

pleasantly together Raff suddenly sprang from his seat, snapped his 
fingers and performed two or three flourishes very much like the 
climax of a Highland Fling. Next he caught his vrouw in his arms 
and fairly lifted her from the ground in his delight. 

“Huzza I” he cried, “I have it I I have it I It’s THOMAS Higgs. 
That’s the name! It came upon me like a flash, write it down, lad 
write it down!” 

Someone knocked at the door. 

“It’s the meester,” cried the delighted dame, “Goede Gunst! how 
things come to pass!” 

Mother and children came in merry collision as they rushed to 
open the door. 

It was not the doctor, after all, but three boys, Peter van Holp, 
Lambert and Ben. 

“Good-evening, young gentlemen,” said Dame Brinker, so happy 
and proud that she would scarce have been surprised at a visit from 
the King himself. 

“Good-evening, jufvrouw,” said the trio, making magnificent bows. 

“Dear me!” thought Dame Brinker as she bobbed up and down 
like a churn dasher, “it’s lucky I learned to courtesy at Heidelberg!” 

Raff was content to return the boys’ salutations with a respectful 
nod. 

“Pray be seated, young masters,” said the dame, as Gretel bashfully 
thrust a stool toward them. “There’s a lack of chairs as you see, 
but this one by the fire is at your service, and if you don’t mind the 
hardness, that oak-chest is as good a seat as the best. That’s right, 
Hans, pull it out.” 

By the time the boys were seated to the dame’s satisfaction, Peter, 
acting as spokesman, had explained that they were going to attend 
a lecture at Amsterdam, and had stopped on the way to return Hans’ 
strap. 

“Oh, mynheer,” cried Hans, earnestly, “it is too much trouble. 
I am very sorry.” 

“No trouble at all, Hans, I could have waited for you to come to 
your work to-morrow, had I not wished to call. And, Hans, talk- 
ing of your work, my father is much pleased with it; a carver by 
trade could not have done it better. He would like to have the 


246 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

south arbor ornamented also, but I told him you were going to school 
again.” 

“Ayel” put in Raff Brinker, emphatically, “Hans must go to 
school at once — and Gretel as well — that is true.” 

“I am glad to hear you say so,” responded Peter, turning toward 
the father, “and very glad to know that you are again a well man.” 

“Yes, young master, a well man, and able to work as steady as 
ever — thank God!” 

[Here Hans hastily wrote something on the edge of a time-worn 
almanac that hung by the chimney-place.] “Aye that’s right, lad, 
set it down. Figgs! Wiggs! Alack! Alack!” added Raff in great 
dismay, “it’s gone again!” 

“All right, father,” said Hans, “the name’s down now in black 
and white. Here, look at it, father; mayhap the rest will come to 
you. If we had the place as well, it would be complete!” then turn- 
ing to Peter, he said in a low tone, “I have an important errand in 
town, mynheer, and if — ” 

“Wist!” exclaimed the dame, lifting her hands, “not to Amster- 
dam to-night, and you’ve owned your legs were aching under you. 
Nay, nay — it’ll be soon enough to go at early daylight.” 

“Daylight indeed!” echoed Raff, “that would never do. Nay, 
Meitje, he must go this hour.” 

The vrouw looked for an instant as if Raff’s recovery was becom- 
ing rather a doubtful benefit; her word was no longer sole law in 
the house. Fortunately, the proverb, “Humble wife is husband’s 
boss” had taken deep root in her mind ; even as the dame pondered, 
it bloomed. 

“Very well. Raff,” she said smilingly, “it is thy boy as well as mine. 
Ah! I’ve a troublesome house, young masters.” 

Just then Peter drew a long strap from his pocket. 

Handing it to Hans he said in an undertone, “I need not thank 
you for lending me this, Hans Brinker. Such boys as you do not 
ask for thanks — but I must say you did me a great kindness, and I am 
proud to acknowledge it. I did not know,” he added, laughingly, 
“until fairly in the race, how anxious I was to win.” 

Hans was glad to join in Peter’s laugh — it covered his embarrass- 
ment and gave his face a chance to cool off a little. Honest, gen- 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 247 

erous boys like Hans have such a stupid way of blushing when you 
least expect it. 

“It was nothing, mynheer,” said the dame, hastening to her son’s 
relief, “the lad’s whole soul was in having you win the race, I know 
it was I” 

This helped matters, beautifully. 

“Ah, mynheer,” Hans hurried to say, “from the first start I felt 
stiff and strange on my feet; I was well out of it so long as I had no 
chance of winning.” 

Peter looked rather distressed. 

“We may hold different opinions there. That part of the business 
troubles me. It is too late to mend it now, but it would be really a 
kindness to me if — ” 

The rest of Peter’s speech was uttered so confidentially that I can- 
not record it. Enough to say, Hans soon started back in dismay, and 
Peter, looking very much ashamed, stammered out something to the 
effect that he would keep them, since he won the race, but it was “all 
wrong.” 

Here Van Mounen coughed, as if to remind Peter that lecture-hour 
was approaching fast. At the same moment Ben laid something 
upon the table. 

“Ah,” exclaimed Peter, “I forgot my other errand. Your sister 
ran off so quickly to-day, that Madame van deck had no opportu- 
nity to give her the case for her skates.” 

“S-s-t!” said Dame Brinker, shaking her head reproachfully at 
Gretel, “she was a very rude girl I’m sure.” [Secretly, she was think- 
ing that very few women had such a fine little daughter.] 

“No, indeed,” laughed Peter, “she did exactly the right thing — 
ran home with her richly won treasures — who would not? Don’t 
let us detain you, Hans,” he continued turning around as he spoke; 
but Hans, who was eagerly watching the father, seemed to have for- 
gotten their presence. 

Meantime, Raff, lost in thought, was repeating, under his breath, 
“Thomas Higgs — Thomas Higgs, aye, that’s the name. Alack! if I 
could but tell the place as well.” 

The skate-case was elegantly made of crimson morocco, orna- 
mented with silver. If a fairy had breathed upon its tiny key, or 


248 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

Jack Frost himself designed its delicate tracery, they could not have 
been more daintily beautiful. For The FLEETEST was written upon 
the cover in sparkling letters. It was lined with velvet, and in one 
corner was stamped the name and address of the maker. 

Gretel thanked Peter in her own simple way; then, being quite 
delighted and confused, and not knowing what else to do, lifted the 
case, carefully examining it in every part. “It’s made by Mynheer 
Birmingham,” she said after awhile, still blushing and holding it 
before her eyes. 

“Birmingham!” replied Lambert van Mounen, “that’s the name 
of a place in England. Let me see it.” 

“Ha! ha!” he laughed, holding the open case toward the fire-light, 
“no wonder you thought so ; but it’s a slight mistake. The case was 
made at Birmingham, but the maker’s name is in smaller letters. 
Humph! they’re so small, I can’t read them.” 

“Let me try,” said Peter, leaning over his shoulder. “Why, man, 
it’s perfectly distinct. It’s T — H — it’s T — ” 

“Well!” exclaimed Lambert, triumphantly, “if you can read it so 
easily, let’s hear it, T — H, what?” 

T. H. — ^T. H. Oh! why, Thomas Higgs, to be sure,” replied 
Peter, pleased to be able to decipher it at last. Then, feeling they 
had been behaving rather unceremoniously, he turned toward 
Hans — 

Peter turned pale! What was the matter with the people? Raff 
and Hans had started up, and were staring at him, in glad amaze- 
ment. Gretel looked wild. Dame Brinker, with an unlighted can- 
dle in her hand, was rushing about the room, crying, “Hans! Hans! 
where’s your hat? oh, the meester! Oh, the meester!” 

“Birmingham! Higgs!” exclaimed Hans. “Did you say Higgs? 
we’ve found him! I must be off.” 

“You see, young masters,” panted the dame, at the same time 
snatching Hans’ hat from the bed, “you see — we know him — he’s our 
■ — no, he isn’t — I mean — oh, Hans, you must go to Amsterdam this 
minute!” 

“Good-night, mynheer,” panted Hans, radiant with sudden joy, 
“good-night— you will excuse me, I must go. Birmingham — Higgs 



“Did you say Higgs?” 



250 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

— Higgs — Birmingham,” and seizing his hat from his mother, and his 
skates from Gretel, he rushed from the cottage. 

What could the boys think, but that the entire Brinker family had 
suddenly gone crazy! 

They bade an embarrassed “good-evening,” and turned to go. But 
Raff stopped them. 

“This Thomas Higgs, young masters, is a — a person.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed Peter, quite sure that Raff was the most crazy 
of all. 

“Yes — a person — a' — ahem! — a friend. We thought him dead. 
I hope it is the same man. In England, did you say?” 

“Yes, Birmingham,” answered Peter, “it must be Birmingham in 
England.” 

“I know the man,” said Ben, addressing Lambert. “His factory 
is not four miles from our place — a queer fellow — still as an oyster 
— don’t seem at all like an Englishman. I’ve often seen him — a sol- 
emn-looking chap, with magnificent eyes. He made a beautiful 
writing-case once for me to give Jenny on her birthday — makes 
pocket-books, telescope-cases, and all kinds of leather work.” 

As this was said in English, Van Mounen of course translated it 
for the benefit of all concerned, noticing meanwhile that neither Raff 
nor his vrouw looked very miserable, though Raff was trembling, and 
the dame’s eyes were swimming with tears. 

You may believe the doctor heard every word of the story, when 
later in the evening he came driving back with Hans. “The three 
young gentlemen had been gone some time,” Dame Brinker said, 
“but like enough, by hurrying, it would be easy to find them coming 
out from the lecture, wherever that was.” 

“True,” said Raff, nodding his head, “the vrouw always hits upon 
the right thing. It would be well to see the young English gentle- 
man, mynheer, before he forgets all about Thomas Higgs — it’s a 
slippery name, d’ye see? — one can’t hold it safe a minute. It come 
upon me sudden and strong as a pile-driver, and my boy writ it down. 
Aye, mynheer, I’d haste to talk with the English lad ; he’s seen your 
son many a time — only to think on’t!” 

Dame Brinker took up the thread of the discourse. 

“You’ll pick out the lad quick enough, mynheer, because he’s in 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 251 

company with Master Peter van Holp ; and his hair curls all up over 
his forehead like foreign folk’s, and, if you hear him speak, he talks 
kind of big and fast, only it’s English ; but that wouldn’t be any hin- 
drance to your honor.” 

The doctor had already lifted his hat to go. With a beaming face, 
he muttered something about its being just like the young scamp to 
give himself a rascally English name; called Hans “my son” — 
thereby making that young gentleman happy as a lord — and left the 
cottage with very little ceremony, considering what a great meester he 
was. 

The grumbling coachman comforted himself by speaking his mind, 
as he drove back to Amsterdam. Since the doctor was safely stowed 
away in the coach, and could not hear a word, it was a fine time to 
say terrible things of folks who hadn’t no manner of feeling for no- 
body, and who were always wanting the horses a dozen times of a 
night. 



THE MYSTERIOUS 

Disappearance 
I dFiTpoMAs Higgs 

^^ChapterXXIII 


H IGGS’ factory was a mine of delight for the gossips of Bir- 
mingham. It was a small building, but quite large enough 
to hold a mystery. Who the proprietor was, or where he 
came from, none could tell. He looked like a gentleman — that was 
certain — though everybody knew he had risen from an apprentice- 
ship ; and he could handle his pen like a writing-master. 

Years ago he had suddenly appeared in the place a lad of eighteen — 
learned his trade faithfully, and risen in the confidence of his em- 
ployer — been taken in as a partner soon after his time was up — and, 
finally, when old Willet died, had assumed the business on his own 
hands. This was all that was known of his affairs. 

It was a common remark among some of the good people that he 
never had a word to say to a Christian soul ; while others declared 
that though he spoke beautiful, when he chose to, there was some- 
thing wrong in his accent. A tidy man, too, they called him, all but 
for having that scandalous green pond alongside of his factory, which 
wasn’t deep enough for an eel, and was “just a fever-nest, as sure as 
you live.” 

His nationality was a great puzzle. The English name spoke 
plain enough for one side of his house, but of what manner of nation 
was his mother? If she’d been an American, he’d certain have had 
high-cheek bones and reddish skin; if a German, he would have 
known the language, and Squire Smith declared he didn’t; if French 
(and his having that frog-pond made it seem likely) it would come 
out in his speech. No — there was nothing he could be but Dutch* 

252 



HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 253 

And strangest of all, though the man always pricked up his ears when 
you talked of Holland, he didn’t seem to know the first thing about 
the country when you put him to the point. 

Anyhow, as no letters ever came to him from his mother’s family 
in Holland, and as nobody living had ever seen old Higgs, the fam- 
ily couldn’t be anything much. Probably Thomas Higgs himself 
was no better than he should be, for all he pretended to carry him- 
self so straight; and for their parts, the gossips declared, they were 
not going to trouble their heads about him. Consequently Thomas 
Higgs and his affairs were never-failing subjects of discussion. 

Picture, then, the consternation, among all the good people when 
it was announced by “somebody who was there and ought to know,” 
that the post-boy had that very morning handed Higgs a foreign- 
looking letter, and the man had “turned as white as the wall; rushed 
to his factory, talked a bit with one of the head workmen, and with- 
out bidding a creature good-by, was off bag and baggage before you 
could wink, ma’am.” Mistress Scrubbs, his landlady, was in deep 
affliction. The dear soul became quite out of breath while speaking 
of him — “to leave lodgin’s in that suddent way without never so much 
as a day’s warnin’ which was what every woman who didn’t wish 
to be trodden under foot, which thank Hewing wasn’t her way, 
had a perfect right to expect; yes, and a week’s warnin’ now you 
mention it, and without even so much as sayin’ many thanks to you, 
Mistress Scrubbs, for all past kindnesses which was most numerous, 
though she said it who shouldn’t say it, leastwise she wasn’t never 
no kind of a person to be lookin’ for thanks every minnit — it was really 
scanderlous, though to be sure Mister ’iggs paid up everythin’ to 
the last farthin’ and it fairly brought tears to her eyes to see his dear 
empty boots lyin’ there in the corner of his room, which alone showed 
trouble of mind for he always stood ’em up straight as solgers, though 
bein’ half-soled twice they hadn’t of course been worth takin’ away.” 

Whereupon her dearest friend. Miss Scrumpkins, ran home to tell 
all about it. And, as everybody knew the Scrumpkinses, a shining 
gossamer of news was soon woven from one end of the street to the 
other. 

An investigating committee met, that evening, at Mrs. Snigham’s 
I — sitting, in secret session, over her best china. Though invited only 


254 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

to a quiet “tea,” the amount of judicial business they transacted on 
the occasion was prodigious. The biscuits were actually cold be- 
fore the committee had a chance to eat anything. There was so 
much to talk over — and it was so important that it should be firmly 
established that each member had always been “certain sure that 
something extraordinary would be happening to that man yet,” that 
it was near eight o’clock before Mrs. Snigham gave anybody a sec- 
ond cup. 

One snowy day in January, Laurens Boekman went with his 
father to pay his respects to the B tinker family. 

Raff was resting after the labors of the day; Gretel, having filled 
and lighted his pipe, was brushing every speck of ash from the 
hearth; the dame was spinning; and Hans, perched upon a stool by 
the window, was diligently studying his lessons — A peaceful, happy 
household whose main excitement during the past week had been 
the looking forward to this possible visit from Thomas Higgs. 

As soon as the grand presentation was over. Dame Brinker in- 
sisted upon giving her guests some hot tea ; it was enough to freeze 
anyone, she said, to be out in such crazy, blustering weather. While 
they were talking with her husband she whispered to Gretel that the 
young gentleman’s eyes and her boy’s were certainly as much alike as 
four beans, to say nothing of a way they both had of looking as if they 
were stupid and yet knew as much as a body’s grandfather. 

Gretel was disappointed. She had looked forward to a tragic 
scene, such as Annie Bouman had often described to her, from story 
books ; and here was the gentleman who came so near being a mur- 
derer, who for ten years had been wandering over the face of the 
earth, who believed himself deserted and scorned by his father — 
the very young gentleman who had fled from his country in such 
magnificent trouble, sitting by the fire just as pleasant and natural as 
could be! 

To be sure his voice had trembled when he talked with her par- 
ents, and he had met his father’s look with a bright kind of smile 
that would have suited a dragon-killer bringing the waters of per- 
petual youth to his king — but after all he wasn’t at all like the con- 
quered hero in Annie’s book. He did not say, lifting his hand to- 
ward Heaven, “I hereby swear to be forever faithful to my home, 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 255 

my God and my country 1” which would have been only right and 
proper under the circumstances. 

All things considered, Gretel was disappointed. Raff, however, 
was perfectly satisfied. The message was delivered; Doctor Boek- 
man had his son safe and sound; and the poor lad had done noth- 
ing sinful after all, except in thinking his father would have aban- 
doned him for an accident. To be sure, the graceful stripling had 
become rather a heavy man — Raff had unconsciously hoped to clasp 
that same boyish hand again — but all things were changed to Raff, 
for that matter. So he pushed back every feeling but joy, as he 
saw father and son sitting side by side at his hearthstone. Mean- 
time, Hans was wholly occupied in the thought of Thomas Higgs’ 
happiness in being able to be the meester’s assistant again; and Dame 
Brinker was sighing softly to herself, wishing that the lad’s mother 
were alive to see him — such a fine young gentleman as he was ; and 
wondering how Doctor Boekman could bear to see the silver watch 
getting so dull. He had worn it ever since Raff handed it over, 
that was evident. What had he done with the gold one he used to 
wear? 

The light was shining full upon Doctor Boekman’s face. How 
contented he looked; how much younger and brighter than for- 
merly. The hard lines were quite melting away. He was laugh- 
ing, as he said to the father, 

“Am I not a happy man. Raff Brinker? My son will sell out his 
factory this month, and open a warehouse in Amsterdam. I shall 
have all my spectacle-cases for nothing.” 

Hans started from his reverie. “A warehouse, mynheer 1 and 
will Thomas Higgs — I mean — is your son not to be your assistant 
again?” 

A shade passed over the meester’s face, but he brightened with an 
effort, as he replied: 

“Oh no, Laurens has had quite enough of that. He wishes to be 
a merchant.” 

Hans appeared so surprised and disappointed that his friend asked 
good-naturedly: 

“Why so silent, boy? Is it any disgrace to be a merchant?” 

“N — not a disgrace, mynheer,” stammered Hans — “but — ” 


256 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

“But what?” 

“Why, the other calling is so much better,” answered Hans, “so 
much nobler. I think, mynheer,” he added, kindling with enthu- 
siasm, “that to be a surgeon, — to cure the sick and crippled, to save 
human life, to be able to do what you have done for my father — is 
the grandest thing on earth.” 

The doctor was regarding him sternly. Hans felt rebuked. 
His cheeks were flushed ; hot tears were gathering under his lashes. 

“It is an ugly business, boy, this surgery,” said the doctor, still 
frowning at Hans, “it requires great patience, self-denial and per- 
severance.” 

“I am sure it does,” cried Hans, kindling again. “It calls for 
wisdom too, and a reverence for God’s work. Ah, mynheer, it may 
have its trials and drawbacks — but you do not mean what you 
say — it is great and noble, not ugly I Pardon me, mynheer. It is 
not for me to speak so boldly.” 

Doctor Boekrhan was evidently displeased. He turned his back 
on the boy, and conferred aside with Laurens. Meanwhile the 
Dame scowled a terrible warning at Hans. These great people, 
she knew well enough, never like to hear poor folk speak up so pert. 

The meester turned around. 

“How old are you, Hans Brinker?” 

“Fifteen, mynheer,” was the startled reply. 

“Would you like to become a physician?” 

“Yes, mynheer,” answered Hans, quivering with excitement. 

“Would you be willing, with your parents’ consent, to devote 
yourself to study, to go to the University — and, in time, be a student 
in my oflice?” 

“YES, mynheer.” 

“You would not grow restless, think you, and change your mind 
just as I had set my heart upon preparing you to be my successor?” 

Hans’ eyes flashed. 

“No, mynheer, I would not change.” 

“You may believe him, there,” cried the dame, who could remain 
quiet no longer, “Hans is like a rock, when once he decides; and 
as for study, mynheer, the child has almost grown fast to his books 
of late. He can jumble off Latin already, like any priest I” 




258 HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

The doctor smiled. “Well, Hans, I see nothing to prevent us 
from carrying out this plan, if your father agrees.” 

“Ahem,” said Raff, too proud of his boy to be very meek, “the 
fact is, mynheer, I prefer an active, out-of-door life, myself. But 
if the lad’s inclined to study for a meester, and he’d have the benefit 
of your good word to push him on in the world, it’s all one to me. 
The money’s all that’s a wanting, but it mightn’t be long, with two 
strong pair of arms to earn it, before we — ” 

“Tut I tut!” interrupted the doctor, “if I take your right-hand 
man away, I must pay the cost, aiid glad enough will I be to do it. 
It will be like having two sons — eh, Laurens? One a merchant and 
the other a surgeon — I shall be the happiest man in Holland! Come 
to me in the morning, Hans, and we will arrange matters at once.” 

Hans bowed assent. He dared not trust himself to speak. 

“And, Brinker,” continued the doctor, “my son Laurens, will need 
a trusty, ready man like you, when he opens his warehouse in Am- 
sterdam; someone to overlook matters, and see that the lazy clowns 
round about the place do their duty. Someone to — ^Why don’t you 
tell him yourself, you rascal!” 

This last was addressed to the son, and did not sound half as fierce 
as it looks in print. The rascal and Raff soon understood eacJi 
other perfectly. 

“I’m loath to leave the dykes,” said the latter, after they had talked 
together awhile, “but you have made me such a good offer, mynheer, 
I’d be robbing my family if I let it go past me.” 


Take a long look at Hans as he sits there staring gratefully at the 
meester, for you shall not see him again for many years. 

And Gretel — Ah, what a vista of puzzling work suddenly opens 
before her! Yes, for dear Hans’ sake she will study now. If he 
really is to be a meester, his sister must not shame his greatness. 

How faithfully those glancing eyes shall yet seek for the jewels 
that lie hidden in rocky school-books! And how they shall yet 
brighten and droop at the coming of one whom she knows of now, 
only as the boy who wore a red cap on that wonderful day when she 
found the Silver Skates in her apron! 

But the doctor and Laurens arc going. Dame Brinker is making 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 259 

her best courtesy. Raff stands beside her, looking every inch a man 
as he grasps the meester’s hand. Through the open cottage door 
we can look out upon the level Dutch landscape all alive with the 
falling snow. 

Our story is nearly told. Time passes in Holland just as surely 
and steadily as here ; in that respect no country is odd. 

To the Brinker family it has brought great changes, Hans has spent 
the years faithfully and profitably, conquering obstacles as they 
arose, and pursuing one object with all the energy of his nature. 
If often the way has been rugged, his resolution has never failed. 
Sometimes he echoes, with his good old friend, the words said long 
ago in that little cottage near Broek : “Surgery is an ugly business 
but always in his heart of hearts lingers the echo of those truer 
words, “It is great and noble! it awakes a reverence for God’s work!” 

Were you in Amsterdam to-day, you might see the famous Doctor 
Brinker riding in his grand coach to visit his patients; or, it might 
be, you would see him skating with his own boys and girls upon 
the frozen canal. For Annie Bouman, the beautiful, frank-hearted 
peasant girl, you would inquire in vain; but Annie Brinker, the 
vrouw of the great physician, is very like her — only, as Hans says, 
she is even lovelier, wiser, more like a fairy godmother than ever. 

Peter van Holp also is a married man. I could have told you be- 
fore, that he and Hilda would join hands and glide through life to- 
gether, just as years ago, they skimmed side by side over the frozen, 
sunlit river. 

At one time, I came near hinting that Katrinka and Carl would join 
hands. It is fortunate now that the report was not started, for Ka- 
trinka changed her mind, and is single to this day. The lady is 
not quite so merry as formerly, and, I grieve to say, some of the 
tinkling bells are out of tune. But she is the life of her social cir- 
cle, still. I wish she would be in earnest, just for a little while, but 
no; it is not her nature. Her cares and sorrows do nothing more 
than disturb the tinkling; they never waken any deeper music. 

Rychie’s soul has been stirred to its depths during these long years. 
Her history would tell how seed carelessly sown is sometimes reaped 
in anguish, and how a golden harvest may follow a painful plant- 
ing. If I mistake not, you may be able to read the written record 


26 o HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 

before long; that is, if you are familiar with the Dutch language. 
In the witty, but earnest author whose words are welcomed at this 
day, in thousands of Holland homes, few could recognize the 
haughty, flippant Rychie who scoffed at little Gretel. 

Lambert van Mounen, and Ludwig van Holp are good Christian 
men, and, what is more easily to be seen at a glance, thriving citi- 
zens. Both are dwellers in Amsterdam, but one clings to the old 
city of that name, and the other is a pilgrim to the new. Van 
Mounen’s present home is not far from Central Park, and he says if 
the New Yorkers do their duty, the Park will, in time, equal his 
beautiful Bosch, near the Hague. He often thinks of the Katrinka 
of his boyhood, but he is glad now that Katrinka, the woman, sent 
him away; though it seemed at the time his darkest hour. Ben’s 
sister Jennie has made him very happy, happier than he could have 
been with anyone else in the wide world. 

Carl Schummel has had a hard life. His father met with re- 
verses in business; and as Carl had not many warm friends, and 
above all, was not sustained by noble principles, he has been tossed 
about by Fortune’s battledore until his gayest feathers are nearly 
all knocked off. He is a bookkeeper, in the thriving Amsterdam 
house of Boekman and Schimmelpenninck. Voostenwalbert, the 
junior partner, treats him kindly; and he, in turn is very respectful to 
the “monkey with a long name for a tail.” 

Of all our group of Holland friends, Jacob Poot is the only one 
who has passed away. Good-natured, true-hearted and unselfish 
to the last, he is mourned now, as heartily as he was loved and 
laughed at while on earth. He grew to be very thin before he died, 
thinner than Benjamin Dobbs, who is now portliest among the 
portly. 

Raff Brinker and his vrouw have been living comfortably in Am- 
sterdam for many years — a faithful, happy pair; as simple and 
straight-forward in their good fortune as they were patient and 
trustful in darker days. They have a zommerhuis near the old cot- 
tage and thither they often repair with their children and grand- 
children on the pleasant Summer afternoons when the pond-lilies 
rear their queenly heads above the water. 

The story of Hans Brinker would be but half told, if we did not 


HANS BRINKER; OR THE SILVER SKATES 261 


leave him with Gretel standing near. Dear, quick, patient little 
Gretell What is she now? Ask old Doctor Boekman, he will de- 
clare she is the finest singer, the loveliest woman in Amsterdam; 
ask Hans and Annie, they will assure you she is the dearest sister 
ever known; ask her husband, he will tell you she is the brightest, 
sweetest little wife in Holland; ask Dame Brinker and Raft”, their 
eyes will glisten with joyous tears ; ask the poor, the air will be filled 
with blessings. 

But, lest you forget a tiny form trembling and sobbing on the 
mound before the Brinker cottage, ask the Van Glecks; they will 
never weary telling of the darling little girl who won The Silver 
Skates. 


THE END 


UP AND DOING SERIES 

By FREDERICK GORDEN 

The doings of real, live boys between the ages of 9 and 12. 

THE YOUNG CRUSOES OF PINE ISLAND 

Or, The Wreck of the Puff 

Here is a story full of thrills about three boys that lived on the 
edge of a large lake. They have plenty of fun fishing, swimming 
and sailing, etc., and one day while sailing their boat, “The Puff,” 
she capsized and drifted to an island in the lake where they play 
Robinson Crusoe until rescued. 


SAMMY BROWN’S TREASURE HUNT 

Or, Lost in the Mountains 

The great desire of Sammy Brown and his chums to find a 
treasure leads them into many adventures, gets tliem lost and finally 
discloses the treasure — but not the one for which they were searching 
Adventure-loving boys should not miss this great story. 


BOB BOUNCER’S SCHOOLDAYS 

Or, The Doings of a Real, Live, Everyday Boy 

Primary and Grammar School life affords boys plenty of fun, 
and Bob Bouncer’s schooldays are “brimfull” ^of just such fun, 
adventures and some rivalries. 

Bob Bouncer was a boy with red blood in his veins, and you 
should read this story of his doings. 


Quarto, cloth, 128 pages. Eight full-page illustrations and beautiful 
colored picture on cover. Price 40 cents per Volume 


For Sale at all book stores or sent postpaid 
upon receipt of price by the Publishers. 

GRAHAM & MATLACK 

251 West 19lh Street 


New York 


THE TOMMY TIPTOP 
SERIES 

By RAYMOND STONE 


A new series for outdoor boys. Every lad who likes 
Baseball, Football and other outdoor sports is going to be a 
friend of Tommy Tiptop — that is, if he reads these stories, 
and he would if he knew what was in store for him. 

Never was there a boy like Tommy Tiptop for doing 
things. Tommy could not be still a minute, and although 
only ten years of age he organized a baseball club, a foot- 
ball eleven, went into a winter camp, and did other things 
too numerous to mention. 


TOMMY TIPTOP and HIS BASEBALL NINE 

Or, The Boys of Riverdale and Their Good Times 

TOMMY TIPTOP and HIS FOOTBALL ELEVEN 

Or, A Great Victory and How It Was Won 

TOMMY TIPTOP and HIS WINTER SPORTS 

Or, Jolly Times on the Ice and in Camp 


Quarto size, 128 pagea, 8 full-page illustrations, beautiful colored 
picture on the cover. Price 40 cents per copy. 

For sale at all book stores or sent postpaid 
upon receipt of 'price by the publishers. 

GRAHAM & MATLACK 

251 West 19th Street 


New York 


THE TRIPPERTROTS SERIES 

By HOWARD R. GARIS 

Authar of the famous “ BEDTIME STORIES ” 


These stories have been told over the telephone nightly 
to thousands of children. The urgent demand has led us 
to publish them in book form for the first time. 

Get acquainted with the Trippertrots, you will not 
regret it. Read how' they ran away and how they got 
back, the wonderful things they saw and the wonderful 
things they did. They will grip you and hold you interested 
and amazed to the very end. 


THE THREE LITTLE TRIPPERTROTS 

How They Ran Away and How They Got Back Again 

THE THREE LITTLE TRIPPERTROTS ON THEIR TRAVELS 

The Wonderful Things They Saw and the 
Wonderful Things They Did 


Both volumes uniformly bound in cloth with beautiful colored 
picture on|cover. 8vo size, 160 pages, 12 full- page illustrations, 
four of them in color. Price 60 cents Each. 


For Sale at all book stores or sent postpaid 
upon receipt of price by the publishers. 


GRAHAM & MATLACK 
251 West 19th Street 



New York 














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